Six o’clock, P. M.—­I have just finished a happy day.  How many events have happened within a few hours, and what a change for Genevieve and Michael!

He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast.

Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, and Genevieve entered with Robert.

The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed it immediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of displeasure.

The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into his arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me.  Genevieve, whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to restrain herself with difficulty.

I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease and civility.

“I expected you yesterday,” said Michael Arout, rather dryly.

“Forgive me, father,” replied the young workman, “but I had business at St. Germains.  I was not able to come back till it was very late, and then the master kept me.”

The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammer again.

“It is right,” muttered he, in a grumbling tone; “when we are with other people we must do as they wish; but there are some who would like better to eat brown bread with their own knife, than partridges with the silver fork of a master.”

“And I am one of those, father,” replied Robert, merrily; “but, as the proverb says, you must shell the peas before you can eat them. It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop”—­

“To go on with your plan of the staircase,” interrupted Michael, ironically.

“You must now say M. Raymond’s plan, father,” replied Robert, smiling.

“Why?”

“Because I have sold it to him.”

The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly.

“Sold it!” cried he, with sparkling eyes.

“For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him.”

Michael threw down the board and tool.

“There he is again!” resumed he, angrily; “his good genius puts an idea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes and sells it to a rich man, who will take the honour of it himself.”

“Well, what harm is there done?” asked Genevieve.

“What harm!” cried the joiner, in a passion; “you understand nothing about it—­you are a woman; but he—­he knows well that a true workman never gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldier would give up his cross.  That is his glory; he is bound to keep it for the honour it does him!  Ah! thunder! if I had ever made a discovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one of my eyes!  Don’t you see, that a new invention is like a child to a workman! he takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for it in the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it.”