It was a boy of ten who listened to La Rose, and while he listened, the sun stood still in the sky, there was an enchantment on all the world. Whatever La Rose said you had to believe, somehow. Oh, I assure you, no one could be more exacting than she in the matter of proofs. For persons who would give an ear to any absurd story tattled abroad she had nothing but contempt.

"Before you believe a thing," said La Rose, sagely, "you must know whether it is true or not. That is the most important part of a story."

She would give a decisive nod to her small head and shut her lips together almost defiantly. Yet always, somewhere in the corner of her alert gray eye, there seemed to be lurking the ghost of a twinkle. La Rose had no age. She was both very young and very old. For all she had never traveled more than ten miles from the little Cape Breton town of Port l'ÉvÊque, you had the feeling that she had seen a good deal of the world, and it is certain that her life had not been easy; yet she would laugh as quickly and abundantly as a young girl just home from the convent.

These two were the best of comrades. La Rose had been the boy's nurse when he was little, and as he had no mother she had kept a feeling of special affection and responsibility for him. Thus it happened that whenever she was making some little expedition out across the harbor—say for blueberries on the barrens, or white moorberries, or ginseng—she would get permission from the captain for Michel to go with her; and this was the happiest privilege in the boy's life. Most of all because of the stories La Rose would tell him.

La Rose had a story to tell about every spot they visited, about every person they passed. She had been brought up, herself, out here on the Cape; and not an inch of its territory but was familiar to her.

"Now that is where those Bucherons lived," she observed one day, as they were walking homeward from Pig Cove by the Calvaire road. "They are all gone now, and the house is almost fallen to pieces; but once things were lively enough there—mon Dieu, oui!—quite lively enough for comfort."

She gave a sagacious nod to her head, with the look of one who could say more, and would, if you urged her a little.

"Was it at the Bucherons' that all the chairs stood on one leg?" asked Michel, thrilling mysteriously.

"Oui, c'est Ça," answered La Rose, in a voice of the most sepulchral, "right there in that house, the chairs stood on one leg and went rap—rap—against the floor. And more than once a table with dishes and other things on it fell over, and there were strange sounds in the cupboard. Oh, it is certain those Bucherons were tormented; but for that matter they had brought it on themselves because of their greediness and their hard hearts. It came for a punishment; and when they repented themselves, it went away."

"I haven't ever heard all the story about the Bucherons," said Michel—"or at least, not since I was big. I am almost sure I would like it."

"Well, I daresay," agreed La Rose. "It is an interesting story in some ways; and the best of it is, it is not one of those stories that are only to make you laugh, and then you go right away and forget them. And another thing: this story about the Bucherons really happened. It was when my poor stepmother was a girl. She lived at Pig Cove then, and that is only two miles from Gros Nez. And one of those Bucherons was once wanting to marry her; but do you think she would have anything to do with a man like that?

"'No,' she said. 'I will have nothing to do with you. I would sooner not ever be married, me, than to have you for my man.'

"And the reason she spoke that way was because of the cruelty they had shown toward that poor widow of a NoÉmi, which everybody on the Cape knew about, and it was a great scandal. And if you want me to tell you about it, that is what I am going to do now."

La Rose seated herself on a flat rock by the road, and Michel found another for himself close by. Below them lay a deep rocky cove, with shores as steep as a sluice, and close above its inner margin stood the shell of a small house. The chimney had fallen in, the windows were all gone—only vacant holes now, through which you saw the daylight from the other side, and the roof had begun to sag.

"Yes," said La Rose, "it will soon be gone to pieces entirely, and then there will be nothing to remind anyone of those Bucherons and what torments they had. You see there were four of them, an old woman and two sons, and one of the sons was married, but there were not any children; and all those four must have had stones instead of hearts. They were only thinking how they could get the better of other people, and so become rich.

"And before that there had been three sons at home; but one of them—BenoÎt his name was—had married a certain NoÉmi Boudrot; and she was as sweet and beautiful as a lily, and he too was different from the others; and so they had not lived here, but had got a little house at Pig Cove, where they were very happy; and the good God sent them two children, of a beauty and gentleness indescribable; and they called them ÉvangÉline and little BenoÎt, but you do not need to remember that, because it is not a part of the story.

"So things went on that way for quite a while; and all the time those four Bucherons were growing more and more hard-hearted, like four serpents in a pile together.

"Well, one day in October that BenoÎt Bucheron who lived in Pig Cove was going alone in a small cart to Port l'ÉvÊque to buy some provisions for winter—flour, I suppose, and meal, and perhaps some clothes and some tobacco; and instead of going direct by the Gros Nez road, he came around this way by the Calvaire so as to stop in and speak to his relatives; and to see them welcoming him, you would never have suspected their stone hearts. But BenoÎt was solemn for all that, as if troubled by some idea. Then that sly old mother, she said:

"'Dear BenoÎt,' she said, 'what troubles you? Can you not put trust in your own mother, who loves you better than her eyes and nose?'—and she smiled at him just like a fat wicked old spider that is waiting for a fly to come and get tangled up in her net.

"But BenoÎt only remembered then that she was his mother; so he said:

"'I have a fear, me, that I shall not be long for this world, my mother. Last week I saw a little blue fire on the barrens one night, and again one night I heard hoofs going claquin-claquant down there on the beach, much like the horse without head. And that is why I am getting my provisions so early, and making everything ready for the winter. See,' he said, 'here is the thirteen dollars I have saved this year. I am going to buy things with it in Port l'ÉvÊque.'

"Now you may depend that when he showed them all that money, their eyes stuck out like the eyes of crabs; but of course they did not say anything only some words of the most comforting. And finally he said, getting ready to go:

"'If anything should happen,' he said, 'will you promise me to be good to that poor NoÉmi and those two poor little innocent lambs?'—and those serpents said, certainly, they would do all that was possible; and with that BenoÎt gets into his cart, and starts down the hill; and suddenly the horse takes a fright of something and runs away, and the cart tips over, and BenoÎt is thrown out; and when his brothers get to him he is quite quite dead—and that shows what it means to see one of those little blue fires at night in the woods.

"Well, you can believe that NoÉmi was not very happy when they brought back that poor BenoÎt to Pig Cove. Her eyes were like two brooks, and for a long time she could not say anything, and then finally, summoning a little voice of courage:

"'I am glad of one thing,' she said, 'which is that he had saved all that money, for without it I would never know how to live through the winter.'

"And one of those brothers said, with an innocent voice of a dove, 'what money then?'—and she said, 'He had it with him.' And so they look for it; but no, there is not any.

"'You must have deceived yourself,' said that brother. 'I am sure he would have spoken of it if he had had any money with him; but he said never a word of such a thing.'

"Now was not that a wicked lie for him to tell? It is hard to understand how abominable can be some of those men! But you may be sure they will be punished for it in the end; and that is what happened to those four serpents, the Bucherons.

"For listen. The old mother had taken the money and had put it inside a sort of covered bowl, like a sugar bowl, but there was no sugar in it; and then she had set this bowl away on a shelf in the cupboard where they kept the dishes and such things; and the Bucherons thought it would be safe until the time when they had something to spend it for in Port l'ÉvÊque; and they were telling themselves how no one would ever know what they had done; and they were glad that the promise they had made to BenoÎt had not been heard by anyone but themselves. And so that poor NoÉmi was left all alone without man or money; but sometimes the neighbors would give her a little food; but for all that those two lambs were often hungry, and their mother too, when it came bedtime.

"But do you think the Bucherons cared—those four hearts of stone? They would not even give her so much as a crust of dry, mouldy bread; and NoÉmi was too proud to go and beg; and beside something seemed to tell her that there had been a wickedness somewhere, and that the Bucherons perhaps knew more than they had told her about that money. So she waited to see if anything would happen.

"Now one night in December, when all those four were in the house alone, the beginning of their punishment arrived, and surely nothing more strange was ever heard of in this world.

"'Ah, mon Dieu!' cries out the married woman all of a sudden—'mon Dieu, what is that!'

"They all looked where she was looking, and what do you think they saw? There was a chair standing with three legs in the air, and only the little point of one on the floor.

"The old woman pushed a scream and jumped to her feet and went over to it, and with much force set it back on the floor, the way a chair is meant to stand; but immediately when she let go of it, there it was again, as before, all on one leg.

"And then, there cries out the younger woman again, with a voice shrill as a frightened horse that throws up its head and then runs away—'Oh, mÈre Bucheron, mÈre Bucheron,' cries she, 'the chair you were just sitting in is three legs in air too!'

"And so it was! With that all the family got up in terror; but no sooner had they done that than at once all the chairs behaved just like the first, which made five chairs. These chairs did not seem to move at all, but stood there on one leg just as if they were always like that. Those Bucherons were almost dead with fright, and all four of them fled out of the house as fast as ever their legs could carry them—you would have said sheep chased by a mad dog—and never stopped for breath till they reached Gros Nez.

"And pell-mell into old Pierre Leblanc's house all together, and shaking like ague. Hardly able to talk, they tell what has happened; and he will not believe them but says, well, he will go back with them and see. So he does, and they re-enter the house together, and look! the chairs are all just as usual.

"'You have been making some crazy dreams,' says Pierre, rather angry, 'or else,' he says, 'you have something bad in your hearts.' And with that he goes home again; and there is nothing more to be told about that night, though I daresay none of those wicked persons slept very well.

"But that was only the beginning of what happened to them during that winter. Sometimes it would be these knockings about the roof, as of someone with a great hammer; and again it was as if they had seen a face at the window—just an instant, all white, in the dark—and then it would be gone. And often, often, the chairs would be standing as before on one leg. The table likewise, which once let fall a great crowd of dishes, and not a few were broken. But worst of all were these strange sounds that made themselves heard in the cupboard, like the hand of a corpse going rap—rap, rap—rap—rap, rap,—against the lid of its coffin. You may well believe it was a dreadful fright for those four infamous ones; but still they would do nothing, because of their desire to keep all that money and buy things with it.

"Everybody on the Cape soon knew about what was happening at the Bucherons', but some pretended it was to laugh at, saying that such things did not happen nowadays; and others said the Bucherons must have gone crazy, and had better be left alone—and their arms and legs would sometimes keep jerking a little when they talked to anyone, as my stepmother told me a thousand times; and they had a way of looking behind them—so!—as if they were afraid of being pursued. So however that might be, nobody would go and see them.

"Well, things went on like that for quite a while, and finally, one day in February, through all the snow that it made on the ground then, that poor NoÉmi marched on her feet from Pig Cove to her mother-in-law's, having left her two infants at a neighbor's; for she had resolved herself to ask for some help, seeing that she had had nothing but a little bite since three days. And when they saw her coming they were taken with a fright, and at first they were not going to let her in; but that old snake of a mother, she said:

"'If we refuse to let her in, my children, she will go and suspect something.'

"So they let her in, and when she was in, they let her make all her story, or as much as she had breath for, and then:

"'I am sorry,' said this old snake of a mother, 'that we cannot possibly do anything for you. Alas, my dear little daughter, it is barely even if we can manage to hold soul and body together ourselves, with the terrible winter it makes these days.'

"And just as she said that, what do you think happened? A chair got on one leg and went rap—rap, rap—against the floor.

"That NoÉmi would often be telling about it afterwards to my stepmother, and she said never of her life had she seen anything so terrifying. But she did not scream or do anything like that, because something, she said, inside her seemed to bid her keep quiet just then. And she used to tell how that old Bucheron woman's face turned exactly the color of an oyster on a white plate, and a trembling took her, and finally she said, scarcely able to make the sound of the words:

"'Though perhaps—I might find—a crust of bread somewhere that—that we could spare.'

"That was how she spoke, and at the same instant, rap went the chair, still on its one leg; and there was a sound of a hammering on the roof.

"'Or perhaps—a little loaf of bread and some potatoes,' said that old Bucheron, while the other Bucherons sat there without one word, in their chairs, as if paralyzed, except that their hands kept up a little shaking motion all the time, like this scour-grass you get in the marsh, which trembles always even if there is not any wind. 'Or perhaps a loaf of bread and some potatoes'—that is what she was saying, when listen, there is a knock as of the hand of corpse just inside the cupboard; and suddenly the two doors fly open—you would have said pushed from the inside!

"NoÉmi crosses herself, but does not say anything, for she knows it is a time to keep still.

"'And perhaps,' says the old woman then, in a voice of the most piteous, as if someone were giving her a pinch, 'and perhaps, if only I had it, a dollar or two to help buy some medicine and a pair of shoes for that ÉvangÉline.... But no, I do not think we have so much as that anywhere in the house.'

"Now was not that like the old serpent, to be telling a lie even at the last; and surely if God had struck her dead by a ball of lightning at that moment it would have been none too good for her. But no, he was going to give her a chance to repent and not to have to go to Hell for a punishment. So what do you think He made happen then?

"Hardly had those abominable words jumped out of her when with a great crash, down off the top shelf comes that sugar bowl (if it was a sugar bowl), and as it hits the floor, it breaks into a thousand pieces; and there, in a little pile, are those thirteen dollars, just as on the day when that poor BenoÎt had been carrying them with him to Port l'ÉvÊque.

"Now just as if they are not doing it at all of their own wish, but something makes them act that way, all of a sudden those four Bucherons are kneeling on the floor, saying their prayers in a strange voice like the prayers you might hear in a tomb; and with that, the chair goes back quietly to its four legs, and the noise ceases on the roof, and those two cupboard doors draw shut without human hands. As for NoÉmi, she grabs up the money, and out she goes, swift as a bird that is carrying a worm to its children, leaving her parents by marriage still there on their knees, like so many images; but as she opens the door she says:

"'May the good God have pity on all the four of you!'—which was a Christian thing to say, seeing how much she had suffered at their hands.

"Well, there is not much more to tell. NoÉmi got through the rest of that winter without any more trouble; and the next year she married a fisherman from Little Anse, and went away from the Cape. As for the Bucherons, they were not like the same people any more. You would not have known them—so pious they were and charitable, though always, perhaps, a little strange in their ways. But when the old woman died, two years later, or three, all the people of Pig Cove and Gros Nez followed the corpse in to Port l'ÉvÊque; and her grave is there in the cemetery.

"The rest of the family are gone now too, as you see; and soon, I suppose, there will not be many left, even out here on the Cape, who know all about what happened to the Bucherons, because of their hard hearts; which is a pity, seeing that the story has such a good lesson to it...."

LA ROSE WITNESSETH

[A]Of the Headless Horse and of La Belle MÉlanie's Narrow Escape from the Feu Follet

[A] Included with permission of and by arrangements with Houghton Mifflin Company authorized publishers.

One of the privileges Michel esteemed most highly was that of accompanying La Rose occasionally when she went blueberrying over on the barrens—dans les bois, as the phrase still goes in Port l'ÉvÊque, though it is all of sixty years since there were any woods there. The best barrens for blueberrying lay across the harbor. They reached back to the bay four or five miles to southward. Along the edges of several rocky coves, narrow and steep as a sluice, clung a few weatherbeaten fishermen's houses; but there was no other sign of human habitation.

It is what they call a bad country over there. Alder and scrub balsam grow sparsely over the low rocky hills, where little flocks of sheep nibble all day at the thin herbage; and from the marshes that lie, green and mossy, at the foot of every slope, a solitary loon may occasionally be seen rising into the air with a great spread of slow wings. A single thread of a road makes its way somehow across the region, twisting in and out among the small hills, now climbing suddenly to a bare elevation, from which the whole sweep of the sea bursts upon the view, now shelving off along the side of a knoll of rocks, quickly dipping into some close hollow, where the world seems to reach no farther than to the strange sky-line, wheeling sharply against infinite space.

Two miles back from the inner shore, the road forks at the base of a little hill more conspicuously bare than the rest, and close to the naked summit of it, overlooking all the Cape, stands a Calvary. Nobody knows how long it has stood there, or why it was first erected; though tradition has it that long, long ago, a certain man by the name of Toussaint was there set upon by wild beasts and torn to pieces. However that may be, the tall wooden cross, painted black, and bearing on its center, beneath a rude penthouse, a small iron crucifix, has been there longer than any present memory records—an encouragement, as they say, for those who have to cross the bad country after dark.

"That makes courage for you," they say. "It is good to know it is there on the windy nights."

By daylight, however, and especially in the sunshine, the barrens are quite without other terrors than those of loneliness; and upon Michel this remoteness and silence always exercised a kind of spell. He was glad that La Rose was with him, partly because he would have been a little afraid to be there quite by himself, but chiefly because of the imaginative sympathy that at this time existed so strongly between them. La Rose could tell him all about the strange things that had been seen here of winter nights; she herself once, tending a poor old sick woman at Gros Nez, out at the end of the Cape, had heard the hoofs of the white horse that gallops across the barrens claquin-claquant in the darkness.

"It was just there outside the house, pawing the ground. Almost paralyzed for terror, I ran to the window and looked out. It was as tall as the church door,—that animal,—all white, and there was no head to it.

"'Oh, mÈre Babinot,' I whispered, scarcely able to make the sound of the words. 'It is as tall as the church door and all white.'

"She sits up in bed and stares at me like a corpse. 'La Rose,' she says,—just like that, shrill as a whistle of wind,—'La Rose, do you see a head to it?'

"'No, not any!'

"'Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Then it's sure! It is the very one, the horse without head!'

"And the next day she took only a little spoonful of tea, and in two weeks she was dead, poor mÈre Babinot; and that's as true as that I made my communion last Easter. Oh, it's often seen hereabouts, that horse. It's a sign that something will happen, and never has it failed yet."

They made their way, La Rose and Michel, slowly over the low hills, picking the blueberries that grew thickly in clumps of green close to the ground. La Rose always wore a faded yellow-black dress, the skirt caught up, to save it, over a red petticoat; and on her small brown head she carried the old Acadian mouchoir, black, brought up to a peak in front, and knotted at the side.

She picked rapidly, with her alert, spry movements, her head always cocked a little to one side, almost humorously, as she peered about among the bushes for the best spots. And wherever he was, Michel heard her chattering softly to herself, in an inconsequential undertone, now humming a scrap of some pious song, now commenting on the quality of the berry crop—never had she seen so few and so small as these last years. Surely there must be something to account for it. Perhaps the birds had learned the habitude of devouring them—now addressing some strayed sheep that had ventured with timid bleats within range: "Te voilÀ, petit mÉchant! Little rogue! What are you looking about for? Did the others go off and leave you? Eh bien, that's how it happens, mon petit. They'll leave you. The world's like that. Eh, lÀ, lÀ!"

He liked to go to the other side of the hill, out of sight of her, where he could imagine that he was lost dans les bois. Then he would listen for her continual soft garrulity; and if he could not hear it he would wait quietly for a minute in the silence, feeling a strange exhilaration, which was almost pain, in the presence of the great sombre spaces, the immense emptiness of the overhanging sky, until he could endure it no longer.

"La Rose!" he would call. "Êtes-vous toujours lÀ?"

"Mais oui, mon enfant. What do you want?"

"Nothing. It is only that I was thinking."

"The strange child that you are!" she would exclaim. "You are not like the others."

"La Rose," he would ask, "was it by here that La Belle MÉlanie passed on the night she saw the death fire?"

"Yes, by this very spot. She was on her way to Pig Cove, over beyond the Calvary to the east. It is a desolate little rat-hole, Pig Cove, nowadays; but then it was different—as many as two dozen houses. My stepmother lived in one of them. Now there are scarcely six, and falling to pieces at that. La Belle MÉlanie, she was a Boudrot, sister of the Pierre Boudrot whose son, ThÉobald, was brother-in-law of stepmother. That was many years ago. They are all dead now, or gone away from here—to Boston, I daresay."

"Will you tell me about that again,—the feu follet and MÉlanie?"

It was the story Michel liked the best, most of all when he could sit beside La Rose, on a moss-hummock of some rough hill on the barrens. Perhaps there would be cloud shadows flitting like dream presences across the shining face of the moor. In the distance, over the backs of the hills that crouched so thickly about them, he saw the stretch of the ocean, a motionless floor of azure and purple, flecked, it might be, by a leaning sail far away; and now and then a gull or two would fly close over their heads, wheeling and screaming for a few seconds, and then off again through the blue.

"S'il vous plaÎt, tante La Rose, see how many berries I have picked already!"

The little woman was not difficult of persuasion.

"It was in November," she began. "There had not been any snow yet; but the nights were cold and terribly dark under a sky of clouds. That autumn, as my stepmother often told me, many people had seen the horse without head as it galloped claquin-claquant across the barrens. At Gros Nez it was so bad that no one dared go out after dark, unless it was to run with all one's force to the neighbors—but not across the woods to save their souls. Especially because of the feu follet.

"Now you must know that the feu follet is of all objects whatever in the world the most mysterious. No one knows what it is or when it will come. You might walk across the barrens every night of your life and never encounter it; and again it might come upon you all unawares, not more than ten yards from your own threshold. It is more like a ball of fire than any other mortal thing, now large, now small, and always moving. Usually it is seen first hovering over one of the marshes, feeding on the poison vapors that rise from them at night: it floats there, all low, and like a little luminous cloud, so faint as scarcely to be seen by the eye. And sometimes people can travel straight by it, giving no attention, as if they did not know it was there, but keeping the regard altogether ahead of them on the road, and the feu follet will let them pass without harm.

"But that does not happen often, for there are not many who can keep their wits clear enough to manage it. It brings a sort of dizziness, and one's legs grow weak. And then the feu follet draws itself together into a ball of fire and begins to pursue. It glides over the hills and flies across the marshes, sometimes in circles, sometimes bounding from rock to rock, but all the while stealing a little closer and a little closer, no matter how fast you run away. And finally—bff! like that—it's upon you—and that's the end. Death for a certainty. Not all the medicine in the four parishes can help you.

"Indeed, there are only two things in all the world that can save you from the feu follet once it gets after you. One is, if you are in a state of grace, all your sins confessed; which does not happen often to the inhabitants of Pig Cove, for even at this day PÈre Galland reproaches them for their neglect. And the other is, if you have a needle with you. So little a thing as a needle is enough, incredible as it may seem; for if you stick the needle upright—like that—in an old stump, the feu follet gets all tangled up in the eye of it. Try as it will, it cannot free itself; and meanwhile you run away, and are safe before it reappears. That is why all the inhabitants of the Cape used to carry a needle stuck somewhere in their garments, to use on such an occasion.

"Well, I must tell you about La Belle MÉlanie. That is the name she was known by in all parts, for she was beautiful as a lily flower, and no lily was ever more pure and sweet than she. MÉlanie lived with her mother, who was aged almost to helplessness, and she cared for her with all the tenderness imaginable. You may believe that she was much sought after by the young fellows of the Cape—yes, and of Port l'ÉvÊque as well, which used to hold its head in the air in those days; but her mother would hear nothing of her marrying.

"'You are only seventeen,' she said, 'ma MÉlanie. I will hear nothing of your marrying, no, not for five years at the least. By that time we shall see.'

"And MÉlanie tried to be obedient to all her mother's commands, difficult as they often were for a young girl, who naturally desires a little to amuse herself sometimes. For even had her mother forbidden her to speak alone to the young men of the neighborhood, so fearful was she lest her daughter should think of marriage.

"Eh bien, and so that was how things went for quite a while, and every day MÉlanie grew more beautiful. And one Saturday afternoon in November she had been in to Port l'ÉvÊque to make her confession, for she was a pious girl. And when she went to meet her companions in order to return to Pig Cove with them, they said they were not going back that night, for there was to be a dance at the courthouse, and they were going to spend the night with some parents by marriage of theirs. Poor MÉlanie! she would have been glad to stay, but alas, her poor mother, aged and helpless, was expecting her, and she dared not disappoint the poor soul.

"So finally one of the young men said he would put her across the harbor, if she did not mind traversing the woods alone; and she said, no, why should she mind? It was still plain daylight. And so he put her across. And she said good-night to him and set off along the solitary road to the Cape, little imagining what an adventure was ahead of her.

"For scarcely had she gone so much as a mile when it had grown almost night, so suddenly at that time of the year does the daylight extinguish itself. The sky had grown dark, dark, and there was a look of storm in it. La Belle MÉlanie began to grow uneasy of mind. And she thought then of the feu follet, and put her hand to her bodice to assure herself of her needle. What then! Alas! it was gone, by some accident, whether or not she had lost it on the road or in the church.

"With that MÉlanie began to feel a terror creep over her; and this was not lessened, as you may well believe, when, a few minutes later, she perceived a floating thing like a luminous cloud in a marsh some long distance from the road. The night was now all black; scarcely could she perceive the road ahead, always winding there among the hills.

"She had the idea of running; but alas, her legs were like lead; she could not make them march in front of her. She saw herself already dead. The feu follet was beginning to move, first very slowly and all uncertain, but then drawing itself together into a ball of fire, and leaping as if in play from one hummock of moss to another, just as a cat will leave a poor little mouse half dead on the floor while it amuses itself in another way.

"What the end would have been, who would have the courage to say, if just at this moment, all ready to fall to the ground for terror, poor MÉlanie had not bethought herself of her rosary. It was in her pocket. She grasped it. She crossed herself. She saluted the crucifix. And then she commenced to say her prayers; and with that, wonderful to say, her strength came back to her, and she began to run. She had never ran like that before—swift as a horse, not feeling her legs under her, and praying with high voice all the time.

"But for all that, the death fire followed, always faster and faster, now creeping, now flying, now leaping from rock to rock, and always drawing nearer, and nearer, with a strange sound of a hissing not of this world. MÉlanie began to feel her forces departing. She was almost exhausted. She would not be able to run much more.

"And suddenly, just ahead, on a bare height, there was the tall Calvaire, and a new hope came to her. If she could only reach it! She summoned all her strength and struggled up. She climbs the ascent. Alas, once more it seems she will fail! There is a fence, as you know, built of white pales, about the cross. She had not the power to climb it. She sinks to the ground. And it was at that last minute, all flat on the ground in fear of death, that an idea came to her, as I will tell you.

"She raises herself to her feet by clinging to the white palings; she faces the feu follet, already not more than ten yards away; she holds out the rosary, making the holy sign in the air.

"'I did not make a full confession!' she cries. 'I omitted one thing. My mother had forbidden me to have anything to do with a young man; and one day when I was looking for Fanchette, our cow, who had wandered in the woods, I met AndrÉ Babinot, and he kissed me.'

"That was what saved her. The feu follet rushed at her with a roar of defeat, and in the same instant it burst apart into a thousand flames and disappeared.

"As for MÉlanie, she fell to the ground again, and lay there for a while, quite unconscious. At last the rain came on, and she revived, and set out for home, but not very vigorously. Ah, mon Dieu! if her poor mother was glad to see her alive again! She embraced her most tenderly, and with encouraging voice inquired what had happened, for MÉlanie was still as white as milk, and there was a strange smell of fire in her garments, and still she held in her hands the little rosary; and so finally MÉlanie told her everything, not even concealing the last confession about AndrÉ, and with that her mother burst into tears, and said:

"'MÉlanie,' she said, 'I have been wrong, me. A young girl will be a young girl despite all the contrary intentions of her mother. To show how grateful to God I am that you are returned to me safe and sound, you shall marry AndrÉ as soon as you like.'

"So they were married the next year. And there is a lesson to this story, too, which is that one should always tell the truth; because if La Belle MÉlanie had told all the truth at the beginning she would not have had all that fright.

"And to show that the story is true, there were found the marks of flames on the white fence of the Calvaire the next day; and as often as they painted it over with whitewash, still the darkness of the scorched wood would show through, as I often saw for myself; but now there is a new fence there...."

LA ROSE WITNESSETH

Of How Old SimÉon's Son Came Home Again