The old man preceded him from a point of self-respect; Villon followed, whistling, with his thumbs in his girdle.

“God pity you,” said the lord of Brisetout at the door.

“Good-bye, papa,” returned Villon, with a yawn.  “Many thanks for the cold mutton.”

The door closed behind him.  The dawn was breaking over the white roofs.  A chill, uncomfortable morning ushered in the day.  Villon stood and heartily stretched himself in the middle of the road.

“A very dull old gentleman,” he thought.  “I wonder what his goblets may be worth?”

A LEAF IN THE STORM, By Ouida

The Berceau de Dieu was a little village in the valley of the Seine.  As a lark drops its nest among the grasses, so a few peasant people had dropped their little farms and cottages amid the great green woods on the winding river.  It was a pretty place, with one steep, stony street, shady with poplars and with elms; quaint houses, about whose thatch a cloud of white and gray pigeons fluttered all day long; a little aged chapel with a conical red roof; and great barns covered with ivy and thick creepers, red and purple, and lichens that were yellow in the sun.  All around it were the broad, flowering meadows, with the sleek cattle of Normandy fattening in them, and the sweet dim forests where the young men and maidens went on every holy day and feast-day in the summer-time to seek for wood-anemones, and lilies of the pools, and the wild campanula, and the fresh dog-rose, and all the boughs and grasses that made their house-doors like garden bowers, and seemed to take the cushat’s note and the linnet’s song into their little temple of God.

The Berceau de Dieu was very old indeed.  Men said that the hamlet had been there in the day of the Virgin of Orleans; and a stone cross of the twelfth century still stood by the great pond of water at the bottom of the street under the chestnut-tree, where the villagers gathered to gossip at sunset when their work was done.  It had no city near it, and no town nearer than four leagues.  It was in the green care of a pastoral district, thickly wooded and intersected with orchards.  Its produce of wheat and oats and cheese and fruit and eggs was more than sufficient for its simple prosperity.  Its people were hardy, kindly, laborious, happy; living round the little gray chapel in amity and good-fellowship.  Nothing troubled it.  War and rumours of war, revolutions and counter-revolutions, empires and insurrections, military and political questions—­these all were for it things unknown and unheard of, mighty winds that arose and blew and swept the lands around it, but never came near enough to harm it, lying there, as it did in its loneliness like any lark’s nest.  Even in the great days of the Revolution it had been quiet.  It had had a lord whom it loved in the old castle on the hill at whose feet it nestled; it had never tried to harm him, and it