“But who could that man be, Agricola?” said Frances.

“On my word, mother, I don’t know and scarcely care; I tried to persuade Daddy Loriot, who chatters like a magpie, to return to his cellar, since it could signify as little to him as to me, whether a spy watched him or not.”  So saying, Agricola went and placed the little leathern sack, containing his wages, on a shelf, in the cupboard.

As Frances put down the saucepan on the end of the table, Mother Bunch, recovering from her reverie, filled a basin with water, and, taking it to the blacksmith, said to him in a gentle tone-"Agricola—­for your hands.”

“Thank you, little sister.  How kind you are!” Then with a most unaffected gesture and tone, he added, “There is my fine flower for your trouble.”

“Do you give it me?” cried the sempstress, with emotion, while a vivid blush colored her pale and interesting face.  “Do you give me this handsome flower, which a lovely rich young lady so kindly and graciously gave you?” And the poor thing repeated, with growing astonishment, “Do you give it to me?”

“What the deuce should I do with it?  Wear it on my heart, have it set as a pin?” said Agricola, smiling.  “It is true I was very much impressed by the charming way in which the young lady thanked me.  I am delighted to think I found her little dog, and very happy to be able to give you this flower, since it pleases you.  You see the day has been a happy one.”

While Mother Bunch, trembling with pleasure, emotion, and surprise, took the flower, the young blacksmith washed his hands, so black with smoke and steel filings that the water became dark in an instant.  Agricola, pointing out this change to the sempstress, said to her in a whisper, laughing,-"Here’s cheap ink for us paper-stainers!  I finished some verses yesterday, which I am rather satisfied with.  I will read them to you.”

With this, Agricola wiped his hands naturally on the front of his blouse, while Mother Bunch replaced the basin on the chest of drawers, and laid the flower against the side of it.

“Can’t you ask for a towel,” said Frances, shrugging her shoulders, “instead of wiping your hands on your blouse?”

“After being scorched all day long at the forge, it will be all the better for a little cooling to-night, won’t it?  Am I disobedient, mother?  Scold me, then, if you dare!  Come, let us see you.”

Frances made no reply; but, placing her hands on either side of her son’s head, so beautiful in its candor, resolution and intelligence, she surveyed him for a moment with maternal pride, and kissed him repeatedly on the forehead.

“Come,” said she, “sit down:  you stand all day at your forge, and it is late.”

“So,—­your arm-chair again!” said Agricola.—­“Our usual quarrel every evening—­take it away, I shall be quite as much at ease on another.”

“No, no!  You ought at least to rest after your hard toil.”