They both loaded their pockets, their girdles, and their hats; and when they had as much as they could carry, they departed, with all whom she had delivered from the enchantment.

The banns were soon published, and Houarn and Bellah were married. But instead of a little cow and a lean pig, he bought all the land in the parish, and put in as farmers the people he had brought with him from the Isle of Lok.

THE FOUR GIFTS.

If I had an income of three hundred crowns, I would go and dwell at Quimper; the finest church in Cornouaille is to be found there, and all the houses have weather-vanes upon their roofs. If I had two hundred crowns a year, I would live at Carhaix, for the sake of its heath-fed sheep and its game. But if I had only one hundred, I would set up housekeeping at Pontaven, for there is the greatest abundance of every thing. At Pontaven they sell b.u.t.ter at the price of milk, chickens for that of eggs, and linen at the same rate as you can buy green flax. So that there are plenty of good farms there, where they dish up salt pork at least three times a week, and where the very shepherds eat as much rye-bread as they desire.

In such a farm lived Barbaik Bourhis, a spirited woman, who had maintained her household like a man, and who had fields and stacks enough to have kept two sons at college.

But Barbaik had only a niece, whose earnings far outweighed her keep, so that every day she laid by as much as she could save.

But savings too easily acquired have always their bad side. If you h.o.a.rd up wheat, you attract rats into your barns; and if you lay by crowns, you will engender avarice in your heart.

Old Mother Bourhis had come at last to care for nothing but the increase of her h.o.a.rds, and think nothing of any one who did not happen to pay heavy sums each month to the tax-gatherers. So she was angry when she saw Denes, the labourer of Plover, chatting with her niece behind the gable. One morning, after thus surprising them, she cried to Tephany in step-mother tones,

"Are not you ashamed to be always chattering thus with a young man who has nothing, when there are so many others who would gladly buy for you the silver ring?"

"Denes is a good workman and a thorough Christian," replied the damsel. "Some day he will be able to rent a farm where he may rear a family."

"And so you would like to marry him?" interrupted the old woman. "G.o.d save us! I would sooner see you drowned in the well than married to that vagabond. No, no, it shall never be said that I brought up my own sister's child to be the wife of a man who can carry his whole fortune in his tobacco-pouch."

"What matters fortune when we have good health, and can ask the Blessed Virgin to look down on our intentions?" replied Tephany gently.

"What matters fortune!" replied the fermiere, scandalised. "What! have you come to such a length as to despise the wealth that G.o.d has given us? May all the saints take pity on us! Since this is the case, you bold-faced thing, I forbid you ever to speak again to Denes; and if I catch him at this farm again, it will be the worse for you both; and meanwhile go you down to the washing-place, and wash the linen, and spread it out to dry upon the hawthorn; for since you've had one ear turned towards the wind from Plover, every thing stands still at home, and your two arms are worth no more than the five fingers of a one-armed man."

Tephany would have answered, but in vain. Mother Bourhis imperiously pointed out to her the bucket, the soap, and the beetle, and ordered her to set off that very instant.

The girl obeyed, but her heart swelled with grief and resentment.

"Old age is harder than the farm-door steps," thought she to herself; "yes, one hundred times harder, for the rain by frequent falling wears away the stones; but tears have no power to soften the will of old people. G.o.d knows that talking with Denes was the only pleasure I had. If I am to see him no more, I might as well leave the world at once; and our good angel was always with us. Denes has done nothing but teach me pretty songs, and talk about what we shall do when we are married, in a farm, he looking after the fields, and I managing the cattle."

Thus talking to herself, Tephany had reached the douez. Whilst setting down her tub of linen upon one of the white lavatory stones, she became aware of an old woman, a stranger, sitting there, leaning her head upon a little scorched thorn-stick. Notwithstanding her vexation, Tephany saluted her.

"Is my aunt [52] taking the air under the alders?" said she, moving her load farther off.

"One must rest where one can, when one has the roof of heaven for a shelter," answered the old woman, in a trembling voice.

"Are you, then, so desolate?" asked Tephany compa.s.sionately; "is there no relation left who can offer you a refuge at his fireside?"

"Every one is long since dead," replied the stranger; "and I have no other family than all kind hearts."

The maiden took the piece of rye-bread rubbed with dripping which Barbaik had given her in a bit of linen with her beetle.

"Take this, poor aunt," said she, offering it to the beggar. "To-day, at least, you shall dine like a Christian on our good G.o.d's bread; only remember in your prayers my parents, who are dead."

The old woman took the bread, then looked at Tephany.

"Those who help others deserve help themselves," said she. "Your eyes are red, because Barbaik has forbidden you to speak to the lad from Plover; but he is a worthy youth, whose intentions are good, and I will give you the means of seeing him once every day."

"You!" cried the girl, astonished that the beggar was so well informed.

"Take this long copper-pin," replied the crone; "and every time you stick it in your dress, Mother Bourhis will be forced to leave the farm, and go to count her cabbages. All the time this pin remains where you stick it, you will be at liberty; and your aunt will not return until the pin is put back into this etui."

With these words the beggar rose, nodded a farewell, and disappeared.

Tephany was lost in astonishment. Evidently the old woman was no beggar, but a saint, or a singer of truth. [53]

At any rate, the young girl treasured the pin carefully, well determined to try its power the next day. Towards the time, then, at which Denes was accustomed to make his appearance, she set it in her collar. Barbaik instantly put on her wooden shoes, and walked off into the garden, where she set herself to count her cabbages; from the garden she went to the orchard, and from the orchard to the field, so that Tephany could talk with Denes at her ease.

It was the same the next day, and the next, through many weeks. As soon as the pin made its appearance from the etui, the good woman was off amongst her cabbages, always beginning to count once more how many little or big, embossed or curly cabbages [54] she had.

Denes at first appeared enchanted at this freedom, but by degrees he grew less eager to avail himself of it. He had taught Tephany all his songs; he had told her all his plans; now he was forced to consider what he could talk to her about, and make it up beforehand, like a preacher preparing his sermon. And more than that, he came later, and went earlier away; sometimes even, pretending cartage, weeding, or errands to the town detained him, he came not to the farm at all; and Tephany had to console herself with her pin.

She understood that the love of her betrothed was cooling, and became more sorrowful than before.

One day, after vainly waiting for the youth, she took her pitcher, and went all solitary to the fountain, her heart swelling with displeasure.

When she reached it, she perceived the same old woman who had given her the magic pin. There she sat, near the spring; and watching Tephany as she advanced, she began with a little chuckling laugh,

"Ah, ah! then the pretty girl is no longer satisfied to chatter with her humble servant any hour of the day."

"Alas, to chat, I must be with him," replied Tephany mournfully; "and custom has made my company less agreeable to him. Oh, aunt, since you have given me the means of seeing him every day, you might give me at the same time wit enough to keep my hold upon him."

"Is that what my daughter wants?" said the old woman. "In that case, here is a feather; let her but put it in her hair, and no one can resist her, for she will be as clever and as cunning as Master John [55] himself."

Tephany, reddening with delight, carried off the feather; and just before Denes' visit on the following day, she stuck it under her blue rozares. [56] That very instant it appeared to her as if the sun rose in her mind; she found herself acquainted with what students spend ten years in learning, and much that even the very wisest know nothing of; for with the science of a man, she still preserved the malice of a woman. Denes was of course astonished at her words; she talked in rhyme like the bazvalanes [57] of Cornouaille, she knew more songs than the mendicants from Scaer, and could tell all the stories current at the forges and the mills throughout the country.

The young man came day after day, and Tephany found always something new to tell him. Denes had never met man or woman with so much wit; but after enjoying it for a time, he began to be scared by it. Tephany had not been able to resist putting in her feather for others than him; her songs, her sayings, were repeated every where, and people said,

"She is a mischievous creature; he who marries her is sure to be led like a bridled horse."

The Plover lad repeated in his own mind the same predictions; and as he had always thought that he would rather hold than wear the bridle, he began to laugh with more constraint at Tephany's jests.

One day, when he wanted to be off to a dance in a new threshing-floor, the maiden used her utmost efforts to retain him; but Denes, who did not choose to be led, would not listen to her reasons, and repulsed her entreaties.

"Ah, I see why you are so anxious to go to the new barn," said Tephany, with irritation; "you are going to see Azilicz of Penenru there."

Azilicz was the handsomest girl in the whole canton; and, if her good friends told truth, she was the greatest flirt.

"To tell the truth, Azilicz will be there," said Denes, who delighted in piquing the jealousy of his dearly-beloved; "and to see her any one would go a long round."

"Go, then, where your heart draws you," said the wounded damsel.