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 winter when she was just twelve years old. Then "Jeanne-Marie, née le 28 Novembre 1854, à minuit," and added, in the same handwriting, "On nous raconte qu'à cette heure-là nous étions en train de gagner une grande bataille en Russie! Que ça lui porte bonheur!" Eight years later; "Jacques Firman, né le 12 Fѐvrier à midi." It all came back to Jeanne-Marie as she read; that scene of his birth, when she was just eight years old. She was sitting alone in the kitchen, crying, for they had told her her mother was very ill, and had been ill all the night, and just as the big clock was striking twelve she heard the voice of the neighbour who had spent the night there, calling to her; "Jeanne-Marie, viens vite, ta mere veut te voir"; and she had gone, timid and hesitating, into the darkened room. The first thing she noticed was the large fire blazing on the open hearth—she had never known her father and mother have a fire before—and she wondered much whether it was being too cold that had made her mother ill, as it had little Catherine. She looked towards the bed and saw her mother lying there, her eyes closed, and very pale—so pale that Jeanne-Marie was frightened and ran towards her father; but he was smiling where he stood by the bed, and the child was reassured. She saw him stoop and kiss his wife on the forehead, and call her his "bonne petite femme," and taking Jeanne-Marie by the hand he showed her the sage-femme—the sage-femme who had come the night before to make her mother well—sitting near the fire with a white bundle in her arms, and thanked the good God aloud that he had sent him a fine boy at last. Old Dubois had come in gently, his béret in his hand, as Jeanne-Marie's father was speaking, and turning to the bed had reiterated emphatically, "Tu as bien fait, chѐre dame, tu as bien fait."

Jeanne-Marie sat silently going over it all in her mind. "Té," she murmured, "how quickly they all go; the father, the mother,