the magnificent palm-branch shape that makes the Lombard poplar one of

the grandest of trees; there they stood, a natural monument which a
man might well be proud of having reared. The shadow had already

reached one side of the road, transforming it into a vast wall of
black leaves, but the setting sun shone full upon the other side,

which stood out in contrast, for the young leaves at the tips of every
branch had been dyed a bright golden hue, and, as the breeze stirred

through the waving curtain, it gleamed in the light.
"You must be very happy here!" cried Genestas. "The sight of this must

be all pleasure to you."
"The love of Nature is the only love that does not deceive human

hopes. There is no disappointment here," said the doctor. "Those
poplars are ten years old; have you ever seen any that are better

grown than these of mine?"
"God is great!" said the soldier, coming to a stand in the middle of

the road, of which he saw neither beginning nor end.
"You do me good," cried Benassis. "It was a pleasure to hear you say

over again what I have so often said in the midst of this avenue.
There is something holy about this place. Here, we are like two mere

specks; and the feeling of our own littleness always brings us into
the presence of God."

They rode on slowly and in silence, listening to their horses' hoof-
beats; the sound echoed along the green corridor as it might have done

beneath the vaulted roof of a cathedral.
"How many things have a power to stir us which town-dwellers do not

suspect," said the doctor. "Do you not notice the sweet scent given
off by the gum of the poplar buds, and the resin of the larches? How

delightful it is!"
"Listen!" exclaimed Genestas. "Let us wait a moment."

A distant sound of singing came to their ears.
"Is it a woman or a man, or is it a bird?" asked the commandant in a

low voice. "Is it the voice of this wonderful landscape?"
"It is something of all these things," the doctor answered, as he

dismounted and fastened his horse to a branch of a poplar tree.
He made a sign to the officer to follow his example and to come with

him. They went slowly along a footpath between two hedges of
blossoming hawthorn which filled the damp evening air with its

delicate fragrance. The sun shone full into the pathway; the light and
warmth were very perceptible after the shade thrown by the long wall

of poplar trees; the still powerful rays poured a flood of red light
over a cottage at the end of the stony track. The ridge of the cottage

roof was usually a bright green with its overgrowth of mosses and
house-leeks, and the thatch was brown as a chestnut shell, but just

now it seemed to be powdered with a golden dust. The cottage itself
was scarcely visible through the haze of light; the ruinous wall, the

doorway and everything about it was radiant with a fleeting glory and
a beauty due to chance, such as is sometimes seen for an instant in a

human face, beneath the influence of a strong emotion that brings
warmth and color into it. In a life under the open sky and among the

fields, the transient and tender grace of such moments as these draws
from us the wish of the apostle who said to Jesus Christ upon the

mountain, "Let us build a tabernacle and dwell here."
The wide landscape seemed at that moment to have found a voice whose

purity, and sweetness equaled its own sweetness and purity, a voice as
mournful as the dying light in the west--for a vague reminder of Death

is divinely set in the heavens, and the sun above gives the same
warning that is given here on earth by the flowers and the bright

insects of the day. There is a tinge of sadness about the radiance of
sunset, and the melody was sad. It was a song widely known in the days

of yore, a ballad of love and sorrow that once had served to stir a
national hatred of France for England. Beaumarchais, in a later day,

had given it back its true poetry by adapting it for the French
theatre and putting it into the mouth of a page, who pours out his

heart to his stepmother. Just now it was simply the air that rose and
fell. There were no words; the plaintive voice of the singer touched

and thrilled the soul.
"It is the swan's song," said Benassis. "That voice does not sound

twice in a century for human ears. Let us hurry; we must put a stop to
the singing! The child is killing himself; it would be cruel to listen

to him any longer. Be quiet, Jacques! Come, come, be quiet!" cried the
doctor.

The music ceased. Genestas stood motionless and overcome with
astonishment. A cloud had drifted across the sun, the landscape and

the voice were both mute. Shadow, chillness, and silence had taken the
place of the soft glory of the light, the warm breath of the breeze,

and the child's singing.
"What makes you disobey me?" asked Benassis. "I shall not bring you

any more rice pudding nor snail broth! No more fresh dates and white
bread for you! So you want to die and break your poor mother's heart,

do you?"
Genestas came into a little yard, which was sufficiently clean and

tidily kept, and saw before him a lad of fifteen, who looked as
delicate as a woman. His hair was fair but scanty, and the color in

his face was so bright that it seemed hardly natural. He rose up
slowly from the bench where he was sitting, beneath a thick bush of

jessamine and some blossoming lilacs that were running riot, so that
he was almost hidden among the leaves.

"You know very well," said the doctor, "that I told you not to talk,
not to expose yourself to the chilly evening air, and to go to bed as

soon as the sun was set. What put it into your head to sing?"
"DAME! M. Benassis, it was so very warm out here, and it is so nice to

feel warm! I am always cold. I felt so happy that without thinking I
began to try over Malbrouk s'en va-t-en guerre, just for fun, and then

I began to listen to myself because my voice was something like the
sound of the flute your shepherd plays."

"Well, my poor Jacques, this must not happen again; do you hear? Let
me have your hand," and the doctor felt his pulse.

The boy's eyes had their usual sweet expression, but just now they
shone with a feverish light.

"It is just as I thought, you are covered with perspiration," said
Benassis. "Your mother has not come in yet?"

"No, sir."
"Come! go in-doors and get into bed."

The young invalid went back into the cottage, followed by Benassis and
the officer.

"Just light a candle, Captain Bluteau," said the doctor, who was
helping Jacques to take off his rough, tattered clothing.

When Genestas had struck a light, and the interior of the room was
visible, he was surprised by the extreme thinness of the child, who

seemed to be little more than skin and bone. When the little peasant
had been put to bed, Benassis tapped the lad's chest, and listened to

the ominous sounds made in this way by his fingers; then, after some
deliberation, he drew back the coverlet over Jacques, stepped back a

few paces, folded his arms across his chest, and closely scrutinized
his patient.

"How do you feel, my little man?"
"Quite comfortable, sir."

A table, with four spindle legs, stood in the room; the doctor drew it
up to the bed, found a tumbler and a phial on the mantel-shelf, and

composed a draught, by carefully measuring a few drops of brown liquid
from the phial into some water, Genestas holding the light the while.

"Your mother is very late."
"She is coming, sir," said the child; "I can hear her footsteps on the

path."
The doctor and the officer looked around them while they waited. At

the foot of the bed there was a sort of mattress made of moss, on
which, doubtless, the mother was wont to sleep in her clothes, for

there were neither sheets nor coverlet. Genestas pointed out this bed
to Benassis, who nodded slightly to show that he likewise had already

admired this motherly devotion. There was a clatter of sabots in the
yard, and the doctor went out.

"You will have to sit up with Jacques to-night, Mother Colas. If he
tells you that his breathing is bad, you must let him drink some of

the draught that I have poured into the tumbler on the table. Take