be totally opposed to his own ideas.  He would have certainly wished his son to learn to read and write, and then to have been trained as a thorough florist and gardener;—­while for his daughter he also desired reading and writing as a matter of course, and then a complete education in cooking and domestic economy, so that she might be a useful and efficient wife and mother when the proper time for such duties came.  Astronomy he felt they could both do without, and most of the “physical sciences.”  Religion he considered an absolute necessity, and this was the very thing that was totally omitted from the national course of education.  He was well aware that there are countless numbers of unhappy people nowadays who despise religion and mock at the very idea of a God.  Every day he saw certain works exposed for sale on the out-of-door bookstalls which in their very titles proclaimed the hideous tone of blasphemy which in France is gradually becoming universal,—­but this did not affect his own sense of what was right and just.  He was a very plain common man, but he held holy things in reverence, and instinctively felt that, if the world were in truth a bad place, it was likely to become much worse if all faith in God were taken out of it.  And when he reached his plot of ground that morning, and set to work as usual, he was, for a non-reflective man, very much absorbed in thought.  His heavy tramping feet over the soil startled some little brown birds from their hidden nests, and sent them flying to and fro through the clear air uttering sharp chirrups of terror,—­and, leaning on his spade, he paused and looked at them meditatively.

“Everything is afraid,” he said,—­“Birds, beasts, and men,—­all are afraid of something and cannot tell what it is that frightens them.  It seems hard sometimes that there should be so much trouble and struggle just to live—­however, the good God knows best,—­and if we could not think and hope and believe He knew best, we might just as well light up a charcoal fire, shut all the doors and windows, and say ’Bon jour!  Bon jour, Monsieur le bon Dieu!—­for if you do not know your business, it is evident we do not know ours, and therefore ‘tis best for both our sakes to make an end of sheer Stupidity!’”

He chuckled at his own reasoning, and moistening his hands vigorously, seized his spade and began to bank up a ridge of celery, singing “Bon jour, Monsieur le bon Dieu!” under his breath without the slightest idea of irreverence.  And looking up at the bright sky occasionally, he wished he had seen the stray boy rescued from the streets by Cardinal Bonpre.

“That he will be a trouble, there is no doubt,” he said as he turned and patted the rich dark earth—­“Never was there a boy born yet into the world that was not a trouble except our Lord, and even in His case His own people did not know what to make of Him!”