making, discovering how to make excellent square white paving-tiles, and sold them for less than the usual prices.  In the third year he had a cart and a pair of horses, and at the same time his wife’s appearance became almost elegant.  Everything about his household improved with the improvement in his business, and everywhere there was the same neatness, method, and thrift that had been the making of his little fortune.

“At last he had work enough for six men, to whom he pays good wages; he employs a wagoner, and everything about him wears an air of prosperity.  Little by little, in short, by dint of taking pains and extending his business, his income has increased.  He bought the tile-works last year, and next year he will rebuild his house.  To-day all the worthy folk there are well clothed and in good health.  His wife, who used to be so thin and pale when the burden of her husband’s cares and anxieties used to press so hardly upon her, has recovered her good looks, and has grown quite young and pretty again.  The two old mothers are thoroughly happy, and take the deepest interest in every detail of the housekeeping or of the business.  Work has brought money, and the money that brought freedom from care brought health and plenty and happiness.  The story of this household is a living history in miniature of the Commune since I have known it, and of all young industrial states.  The tile factory that used to look so empty, melancholy, ill-kept, and useless, is now in full work, astir with life, and well stocked with everything required.  There is a good stock of wood here, and all the raw material for the season’s work:  for, as you know, tiles can only be made during a few months in the year, between June and September.  Is it not a pleasure to see all this activity?  My tile-maker has done his share of the work in every building going, always busy—­’the devourer,’ they call him in these parts.”

Benassis had scarcely finished speaking when the wicket gate which gave entrance to the garden opened, and a nicely-dressed young woman appeared.  She came forward as quickly as her condition allowed, though the two horsemen hastened towards her.  Her attire somewhat recalled her former quality of ladies’ maid, for she wore a pretty cap, a pink dress, a silk apron, and white stockings.  Mme. Vigneau in short, was a nice-looking woman, sufficiently plump, and if she was somewhat sunburned, her natural complexion must have been very fair.  There were a few lines still left on her forehead, traced there by the troubles of past days, but she had a bright and winsome face.  She spoke in a persuasive voice, as she saw that the doctor came no further, “Will you not do me the honor of coming inside and resting for a moment, M. Benassis?”

“Certainly we will.  Come this way, captain.”

“The gentleman must be very hot!  Will you take a little milk or some wine?  M. Benassis, please try a little of the wine that my husband has been so kind as to buy for my confinement.  You will tell me if it is good.”