La Fosseuse deftly stirred the fire of dry branches and turfs of peat, then sat down in an armchair and took up one of the shirts that she had begun.  She sat there under the officer’s eyes, half bashful, afraid to look up, and calm to all appearance; but her bodice rose and fell with the rapid breathing that betrayed her nervousness, and it struck Genestas that her figure was very graceful.

“Well, my poor child, is your work going on nicely?” said Benassis, taking up the material intended for the shirts, and passing it through his fingers.

La Fosseuse gave the doctor a timid and beseeching glance.

“Do not scold me, sir,” she entreated; “I have not touched them to-day, although they were ordered by you, and for people who need them very badly.  But the weather has been so fine!  I wandered out and picked a quantity of mushrooms and white truffles, and took them over to Jacquotte; she was very pleased, for some people are coming to dinner.  I was so glad that I thought of it; something seemed to tell me to go to look for them.”

She began to ply her needle again.

“You have a very pretty house here, mademoiselle,” said Genestas, addressing her.

“It is not mine at all, sir,” she said, looking at the stranger, and her eyes seemed to grow red and tearful; “it belongs to M. Benassis,” and she turned towards the doctor with a gentle expression on her face.

“You know quite well, my child, that you will never have to leave it,” he said, as he took her hand in his.

La Fosseuse suddenly rose and left the room.

“Well,” said the doctor, addressing the officer, “what do you think of her?”

“There is something strangely touching about her,” Genestas answered.  “How very nicely you have fitted up this little nest of hers!”

“Bah! a wall-paper at fifteen or twenty sous; it was carefully chosen, but that was all.  The furniture is nothing very much either, my basket-maker made it for me; he wanted to show his gratitude; and La Fosseuse made the curtains herself out of a few yards of calico.  This little house of hers, and her simple furniture, seem pretty to you, because you come upon them up here on a hillside in a forlorn part of the world where you did not expect to find things clean and tidy.  The reason of the prettiness is a kind of harmony between the little house and its surroundings.  Nature has set picturesque groups of trees and running streams about it, and has scattered her fairest flowers among the grass, her sweet-scented wild strawberry blossoms, and her lovely violets. . . .  Well, what is the matter?” asked Benassis, as La Fosseuse came back to them.

“Oh! nothing, nothing,” she answered.  “I fancied that one of my chickens was missing, and had not been shut up.”

Her remark was disingenuous, but this was only noticed by the doctor, who said in her ear, “You have been crying!”

“Why do you say things like that to me before some one else?” she asked in reply.