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 he had spoken those words not only in the tone but in the speech in which he would have said them to his mother. But his hearer did, for it was the patois of her own native canton that she had heard.

“Eh, mon Dieu!” she ejaculated; “mon Dieu!” She set down, first, her bucket of milk and her stool with all the carefulness of the good housewife; and then she clasped her hands, looked up with streaming eyes to heaven, and addressed, surely to every saint in the calendar, a medley of thanks and lamentations and thanks again, of which Philippe understood every word, for it, too, was in his native tongue.

“You are of Mec, ma mère, of Boissy?” he inquired with eagerness, when at length she paused for breath.

“I am of Evremond, monsieur,” she replied. Philippe grew very white. It had been the village next his own.

“Ah, you know then the bridge,” he said hoarsely. “You know the church of St. Armand? And the house of Martin the miller, that stands midway between the church and the bridge?” He could scarcely breathe as he finished.

“But which bridge?” inquired the old woman. “And which church would monsieur distinguish, since there now are several? But as for the house of Père Martin, the miller—ah, yes—but it is twenty years since that was pulled down. There stands a fine, magnificent hotel in its place now,” she added with pride, “and the railway runs by the stream.”

“How! Through Fleury’s pasture?” cried Philippe in dismay.

“Fleury’s pasture? I know it not. But yes,