“Not one better than you,” I said, “not one more dear than you.  Yes, I am rich; and I have been planning something to do for Ville-en-bois.  Would you like the church enlarged and beautified, Monsieur le Cure?”

“It is large enough and fine enough already,” he answered.

“Shall I put some painted windows and marble images into it?” I asked.

“No, no, madame,” he replied, “let it remain as it is during my short lifetime.”

“I thought so,” I said, “but I believe I have discovered what Monsieur le Cure would approve.  It is truly English.  There is no sentiment, no romance about it.  Cannot you guess what it is, my wise and learned monsieur?”

“No, no, madame,” he answered, smiling in spite of his sadness.

“Listen, dear monsieur,” I continued:  “if this village is unhealthy for me, it is unhealthy for you and your people.  Dr. Martin told Tardif there would always be fever here, as long as there are no drains and no pure water.  Very well; now I am rich I shall have it drained, precisely like the best English town; and there shall be a fountain in the middle of the village, where all the people can go to draw good water.  I shall come back next year to see how it has been done, Voila, monsieur!  There is my secret plan for Ville-en-bois.”

Nothing could have been more effectual for turning away Monsieur Laurentie’s thoughts from the mournful topic of our near separation.  After vespers, and before supper, he, Dr. Senior, and I made the tour of Ville-en-bois, investigating the close, dark cottages, and discussing plans for rendering them more wholesome.  The next day, and the day following, the same subject continued to occupy him and Dr. Senior; and thus the pain of our departure was counterbalanced by his pleasure in anticipating the advantages to be obtained by a thorough drainage of his village, and more ventilation and light in the dwellings.

The evening before we were to set out on our return to England, while the whole population, including Dr. Senior, were assisting at vespers, I turned my feet toward the little cemetery on the hill-side, which I had never yet visited.—­The sun had sunk below the tops of the pollard-trees, which grew along the brow of the hill in grotesque and fantastic shapes; but a few stray beams glimmered through the branches, and fell here and there in spots of dancing light.  The small square enclosure was crowded with little hillocks, at the head of which stood simple crosses of wood; crosses so light and little as to seem significant emblems of the difference between our sorrows, and those borne for our sakes upon Calvary.  Wreaths of immortelles hung upon most of them.  Below me lay the valley and the homes where the dead at my feet had lived; the sunshine lingered yet about the spire, with its cross, which towered above the belfry; but all else was in shadow, which was slowly deepening into night.  In the west the sky was flushing and throbbing with transparent tints of amber and purple and green, with flecks of cloud floating across it of a pale gold.  Eastward it was still blue, but fading into a faint gray.  The dusky green of the cypresses looked black, as I turned my splendor-dazzled eyes toward them.