I was in the midst of the repast and a political talk with my host, when a young and exceedingly beautiful peasant girl came in, whom I should undoubtedly have declared a lady who had fled from cruel parents and an unwished-for marriage, had not her red hands and unadulterated peasant dialect convinced me that no disguise had taken place.  She nodded in a friendly way, cast a passing glance under the table, went out and came in soon again with a dish of milk and water, which she put down on the floor with the words, “Your dog may need something too.”

I thanked her for her attention; but this was fully given to the big dog, whose greediness soon made the dish empty, and who now in his way thanked the giver by rubbing himself up against her; and when she raised her arms, a little intimidated, Chasseur misunderstood the movement, put himself on the alert, and forced the screaming girl backwards toward the alcove.  I called the dog back and explained his good intentions.

I would not have invited the reader’s attention to so trivial a matter, but to remark that everything is becoming to the beautiful; for indeed this peasant girl showed, in everything she said and did, a certain natural grace which could not be called coquetry unless you will so call an innate unconscious instinct.

When she had left the room I asked the parents if this was their daughter.  They answered in the affirmative, adding that she was an only child.

“You won’t keep her very long,” I said.

“Dear me, what do you mean by that?” asked the father; but a pleased smile showed that he understood my meaning.

“I think,” I answered, “that she will hardly lack suitors.”

“Hm!” grumbled he, “of suitors we can get a plenty; but if they are worth anything, that is the question.  To go a-wooing with a watch and a silver-mounted pipe does not set the matter straight; it takes more to ride than to say ‘Get up!’ Sure as I live,” he went on, putting both clenched hands on the table and bending to look out of the low window, “if there is not one of them—­a shepherd’s boy just out of the heather—­oh yes, one of these customers’ who run about with a couple of dozen hose in a wallet—­stupid dog! wooes our daughter with two oxen and two cows and a half—­yes, I am on to him!—­Beggar!”

All this was not addressed to me, but to the new-comer, on whom he fastened his darkened eyes as the other came along the heather path toward the house.  The lad was still far enough away to allow me time to ask my host about him, and I learned that he was the son of the nearest neighbor—­who, by the way,

MATHILDE BLIND

(1847-1896)

[Illustration:  Mathilde Blind]