anything so stupid?  And it’s just like his mill; all folly and idleness he stands still, looking at it fall into ruins.  He at least had a reason for that in former times; he used to say that as the region had almost renounced corn-growing, the peasants did not bring him enough grain to set his mill-stones working.  But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows on all sides, surely he ought to have pulled down his old wheel and have replaced it by a good engine.  Ah! if I were in his place I would already have a new and bigger mill there, making all use of the water of the Yeuse, and connecting it with Janville railway station by a line of rails, which would not cost so much to lay down.”

Gregoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall on another than himself.  And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters were still greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying:  “Well, for the table to-morrow morning you must gather those which are the lightest in color—­the pale pink ones; they will do very well.”

Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by adding gayly:  “Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find.  They will symbolize the blood of life!”

Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all the preparations, when other little feet came tripping through the grass.  Nicolas, quite proud of his seven years, was leading his niece Berthe, a big girl of six.  They agreed very well together.  That day they had remained indoors playing at “fathers and mothers” near the cradle occupied by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies.  But all at once the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment.  And Nicolas and Berthe, quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch the two mothers.

“Mamma!” called Nicolas, “Benjamin’s asking for you.  He’s thirsty.”

“Mamma, mamma!” repeated Berthe, “Guillaume’s thirsty.  Come quick, he’s in a hurry.”

Marianne and Charlotte laughed.  True enough, the morrow’s wedding had made them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house.

On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated in affectionate intimacy.  There were but one-and-twenty at table under the oak tree in the middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, seemed like a hall of verdure.  The whole family was present:  first those of the farm, then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wife Andree, who had brought their little Leonce with them.  And apart from the family proper, there were only the few invited relatives, Beauchene and Constance, Seguin and Valentine, with, of course, Madame Desvignes, the bride’s mother.  There were twenty-one at table, as has been said; but besides those one-and-twenty there were three very little ones present:  Leonce, who at fifteen months had just been weaned, and Benjamin and Guillaume, who still took the breast.  Their little carriages had been drawn up near, so that they