RELATIONS.
out of them; but your husband will get noth-  g^~^ wVS'^^f^S
we had Roussette, who supplied.miIk te.make
111 And while drying the legs of his trousers.
^Wch were becoymifg stiff under theircoating
,nf black mud, he repeated the P.hrase, ^]
luck" with a sincere feeling, which showed
that he himself would willingly become a crip-
Se in the hope of thus gaining a good income.
" However," he said, as he ended his story
 I hare advised him to take an action against
.the contractor."                                
"A lawsuit!   That costs a heap.
"Yes; but if you win it!"
Mother Barberin would have liked to go to
Paris ; but so long and expensive a journey was
* The^exf dty we went down to the village to
consult the priest. He would not allow her to
go wUhout first knowing if she could be of use
to her husband. He wrote to the chaplain of
the hospital where Barberin was lying, and a
fewdayPs-afterwards he received a replyto say
that Mother Barberin was not to come, but that
she was to send a certain sum of money to her
husband, because he was about to take an ao-
7tion against the contractor in whose service he
&ad received his injuries.
Days and weeks elapsed, and every now and
again came letters, all of them demanding.re-
Sfittances of money. The last, more pressing
than the others, said that if there was no more
money the cow must be sold to procure it.
Those who have lived in the country among
the peasants alone know the grief d distress
contained in those three words  " Sell the cow
To a naturalist the cow is a ruminating
animal; to the pedestrian it is an animal which
iorms a feature of the landscape when it laises
its black muzzle, all dripping with dew, above
the grass; to the city people it is the source of
saafeau lait and cheese cream; but tothe peas-
ant it is something better and more important
still However poor he may be, and however
large his family, so long as he has a cow in his
stable he is sure of never being hungry With
.-a tether or even with a mere halter tied to the
horns,  child leads the cow along the grass-
bordered roads, where the pasture belongs to no
-one, and in the evening the whole family have
butter in their soup and " milk to drink with
their potatoes. The father, mother, and chil-
dren, great and small, live on the cow
We had lived so well on ours, Mother Bar-
berin and I, that up. to this time I had scarcely
ver tasted meat. But she was not alone our
support; she was our companion, our friend,
-for it must not be imagined that a cow is a
Stupid beast; on the contrary, it is an anima
full of intelligence and moral qualities, which
are capable of being still further developed by
education. We stroked ours, we talked to hei.
She understood us, and with her great round
gentle eyes she well knew how to make us
understand her feelings and desires. In a word,
we loved her and she loved us.
Nevertheless, we must part from her, tor it
Tvas only by selling the cow that Barberin s de-
mand could be satisfied.                           .     .
A dealer came to the house, and after having
thoroughly examined Roussette,   and having
felt her all over for a long time, meanwhile
shaking his head with a discontented air,alter
having said over and over again a hundred J
times that she did not suit him at all, that she
was only fit for poor people, and that he would
not be able to sell her. again,-that she gave no
milk, that she made bad butter,-he ended by
saying that he would take her, but only out of
kindness of heart and to oblige Mother Barber-
in, who was an honest woman.
Poor Roussette, as if she understood what
was going on, refused to leave her stable, and
began to low.
"Go behind and drive her out! said the
dealer to me, handing me the whip which he
wore tied round his neck.                       ,
" None of that," said Mother Barberin, and,
taking the cow by the halter, she spoke gently
to her.                                       ,       
" Come, my beauty; come along.
Roussette resisted no longer. Once on the
Toad the dealer fastened her behind his vehicle,
and she was obliged to follow the horse.
We returned to the house, but for a long time
afterwards we heard her lowing.
No more milk, no more butter; a bit of bread
in the morning, and inthe evening potatoes and
SaShrove Tuesday came a short time after the
sale of Roussette. The year before at Shrove
Tuesday Mother Barberin had made me a feast
we had lvousscLLc, uu w^r---- -
the dough and butter to put in the frying-pan
"No Roussette, no milk, no butter, no Shrove
Tuesday," sol said sadly to myseit.
But Mother Barberin had prepared a surprise
for me. Although she was not given to borrow-
insr she had asked a cup of milk from one
neighbor, a piece of butter from another and
wh!n I came home at midday I found her
about to pour some flour into a great earthen
Pa" Hev! flour!" said I, going up tS her.
 Yes7' she said, smiling; " ft is tourindee*
and nothing else my little Remi and good
wheat flour too.    Look, is it not fine t
Had I dared, I would have asked her what
theflour was for, but precisely because I wanted
0  badly to know I did not venture to speak of
it- and for another reason, I did not want to
saV anything about Shrove. Tuesday, in order
not to annov Mother Barberin.
"What do people make with flour?" she said,
looking at me.
"Bread."
" Something elseeh?
"Hasty-pudding."
" And something else?
"I don't know."                  ,
"Yes you know well; but because you are a
good little boy you don't like to say it. You know
that this is Shrove Tuesday, the day for pau-
ses and fritters; but, as you know also tha
we have neither butter nor milk, you do not
dare to speak of it; is not that true.'
"Oh, Mother Barberin!"                                 ,
"As I knew all that beforehand, I arranged
matters so that Shrove Tuesday, won t be so
shabby after all.    Look into the bin.
On raising the lid, which I did quickly, I
saw milk, butter, eggs, and three apples.
"Give me the eggs," said she;     and, while
1  beat them, peel the apples."
While I cut the apples into slices, she broke
the eggs among the flour and began to beat it
all up together? adding every now and again a
spoonful of milk.
When the batter was mixed, Mother Barberin
laid the pan on the top of the hot ashes, and we
had now only to wait until evening, for it was
! at supper that we were to eat the pancakes and
1 fritters. Were the truth to be told, 1 must
confess that the day seemed to me very long
and that more than once I lifted up the cloth
which covered the pan.
"You will chill the batter, and it won t rise
well," said Mother Barberin.
But it did rise well, and here and there swell-
ings showed themselves, bubbles rose tothe top
and burst, the fermenting dough gave out a good
smell of eggs and milk.
"Split some wood," she  said to me:     we
want a good clear fire without smoke.
At last the candle was lighted.
"Put wood on the fire," she said.
There was no need to repeat an order which i
was expecting with such impatience.    Soon a
great flame rose up the chimney, and itsflicker-
Sg light filled all the kitchen.    Then Mother
Barberin  unhooked  her frying pan from the
wall and laid it on top of the flame.
"Give me the butter."
" With the point of her kuife she cut on: a
piece as large as a small nut and put it in the
pan, where it melted sputtering.
Ahl it was a good smell, and one which
tickled our nostrils all the more agreeably be-
cause we had not had anything like it for such
a long time. It was a merry music too that
which the spluttering and hissing of the butter
made But I was not so rapt in listening to it
that  could not hear the sound of steps in our
vard Who could be coming to disturb us at
this hour?a neighbor, doubtless, to ask for
klButDf' did not dwell upon this idea for
Mother Barberin, who had dipped her ladle in
the earthen pan, was just spreading upon the
frying-pan a sheet of white batter, and it was
not the moment to allow one's attention to
W Adstick knocked on the door-step, then the
door opened suddenly.                         t>,w,.
"Who is there?" asked Mother Barberin,
without looking round.
A man had entered, and by the light of the
flame which fell upon him I could see that he
was dressed in a white blouse and that he car-
ried a heavy stick in his hand.
You are holding a feast here; don't disturb
yourselves," said he, in a rude voice.             .
"Ah mon Dieu!" cried Mother Barberin,
laying down the frying-pan on the ground in a
hurry, "itis you, Jerome/'
Then she took me by the arm and pushed me
towards the man, who had remained standing
on the threshold.     
"Thatisydut father.
CHAPTER II.
A    FOSTEB-PATHEB.
I had drawn near to embrace him in my
turn, but he motioned me back with the end of
his stick.
"Who is that?"
"It is Remi."
" You told mer-----"                                        
"Well, yes; but it was not true, because------
"Ah! not true, not true."
He stepped forward towards me with his stick
raised, and I instinctively drew back.
What had I done?what was I guilty of?
Why this reception when I was about to kiss
him? I had not time to examine the questions
which hurried rapidly through my bewildered
ml" i'see that you are keeping Shrove Tuesday,"
said he, " and that is lucky, for I am famishing
with hunger.    What have you got for supper?
" I was making pancakes."
 So I see; but you are not going to give pan-
cakes to a man who has walked ten leagues ?
"1 have nothing else.    We did not expect
y"How nothing?   Nothing for supper?"
He looked all around.
" There is butter."
He raised his eyes to the place on the ceiling
where the bacon used to hang formerly, but the
hooks had been empty for a long time, and now
only a few strings of garlic and onions hung
from the beam.        
" There are onions," he said, knocking down
a string with his stick; "four or five onions
and a bit of butter, and we shall have good
broth. Take up your paneake and fry the
onions in the pan."
Take the pancake out of the pan!
Mother Barberin made no reply. On the con-
trary she made haste to do what her husband
asked, while he seated himself on the bench
which was in the chimney-corner.
I had not dared to leave the place whither 1
had retreated before the stick, and, leaning
against the table, I was looking at him.
He was a man about fifty years of age, with
a rough countenance and a hard expression.
His head was bent towards his left shoulder, in
consequence of the hurt which he had received ;
and this deformity helped to make his appear-
ance uninviting.
Mother Barberin had replaced the pan on the
fire
" Is that all the butter you are going to put
in my soup?" he said; then, taking the plate
in which the butter was, he dropped the whole
lump into the pan.
No more butter, no more pancakes either. At
any other time I certainly would have been
profoundly moved by this catastrophe, but.1 was
no longer thinking of the pancakes or fritters
and the one idea that filled my mind was that
this man who seemed so hard was my father
"My father; my father." I repeated the
words mechanically to myself.       '           .
I had never very precisely questioned myseit
as to what a father was, and in a vague, in-
stinctive way I had fancied that it was a mother
with a gruff voice; but on seeing this one who
had dropped upon me from the clouds, 1 telt
myself overcome with grief and terror.
I had wanted to kiss him: he had pushed me
away with the end of his stick. Why, when I
went to kiss Mother Barberin she never pushed
me away; on the contrary, she took me in her
arms and hugged me to her.
" Put the plates upon the table,    said he to
me, "instead of standing there as if you were
frozen stiff."                      jj                           ._
I hastened to obey.     The soup was ready,
Mother Barberin dished it up in plates.
Then leaving the chimney-corner, he tooK
his seat at the table and began to eat, stop-
ping now and again to look at me.            ___
I was so disturbed and uneasy that I could
not eat, and I also looked at him, but on the
sly, turning away my eyes when they encoun-
tered his.