The old woman raised her head at this, and looked at him with gentle malice in her eyes.

“Fond of them!” she said.  “I have had to part with three of them already.  I only have the care of them until they are six years old,” she went on with a sigh.

“But where are your own children?”

“I have lost them.”

“How old are you?” Genestas asked, to efface the impression left by his last question.

“I am thirty-eight years old, sir.  It will be two years come next St. John’s Day since my husband died.”

She finished dressing the poor sickly mite, who seemed to thank her by a loving look in his faded eyes.

“What a life of toil and self-denial!” thought the cavalry officer.

Beneath a roof worthy of the stable wherein Jesus Christ was born, the hardest duties of motherhood were fulfilled cheerfully and without consciousness of merit.  What hearts were these that lay so deeply buried in neglect and obscurity!  What wealth, and what poverty!  Soldiers, better than other men, can appreciate the element of grandeur to be found in heroism in sabots, in the Evangel clad in rags.  The Book may be found elsewhere, adorned, embellished, tricked out in silk and satin and brocade, but here, of a surety, dwelt the spirit of the Book.  It was impossible to doubt that Heaven had some holy purpose underlying it all, at the sight of the woman who had taken a mother’s lot upon herself, as Jesus Christ had taken the form of a man, who gleaned and suffered and ran into debt for her little waifs; a woman who defrauded herself in her reckonings, and would not own that she was ruining herself that she might be a Mother.  One was constrained to admit, at the sight of her, that the good upon earth have something in common with the angels in heaven; Commandant Genestas shook his head as he looked at her.

“Is M. Benassis a clever doctor?” he asked at last.

“I do not know, sir, but he cures poor people for nothing.”

“It seems to me that this is a man and no mistake!” he went on, speaking to himself.

“Oh! yes, sir, and a good man too!  There is scarcely any one hereabouts that does not put his name in their prayers, morning and night!”

“That is for you, mother,” said the soldier, as he gave her several coins, “and that is for the children,” he went on, as he added another crown.  “Is M. Benassis’ house still a long way off?” he asked, when he had mounted his horse.

“Oh! no, sir, a bare league at most.”

The commandant set out, fully persuaded that two leagues remained ahead of him.  Yet after all he soon caught a glimpse through the trees of the little town’s first cluster of houses, and then of all the roofs that crowded about a conical steeple, whose slates were secured to the angles of the wooden framework by sheets of tin that glittered in the sun.  This sort of roof, which has a peculiar appearance, denotes the nearness of the borders of Savoy, where it is very common.  The valley is wide at this particular point, and a fair number of houses pleasantly situated, either in the little plain or along the side of the mountain stream, lend human interest to the well-tilled spot, a stronghold with no apparent outlet among the mountains that surround it.