In the same language Mr. Rougeant replied: "Yes, this is he."

She had now regained all her former ease, and knowing her father's manners, thanked Frank most cordially.

He stammered out a few words of acknowledgement.

Seeing that her visitor cast glances at the quaint furniture, and anxious to break the confusing silence, Adele went on: "Doubtless you had not seen a kitchen like this before Mr. ----."

"My name is Frank Mathers," interposed the young man.

"And mine is Adele Rougeant," said she.

"Fancy, putting you in such a kitchen. We must go into the parlour directly."

"This is indeed very quaint and certainly primitive furniture. I must explain the use of----, that is if----."

"I should be greatly obliged," said Frank, "but it really is giving yourself too much trouble."

"On the contrary, it gives me pleasure. This"--pointing to a low kind of bedstead--"was the sofa of our forefathers. We call it a _jonquiere_. It was formerly stuffed with a weed which still grows near the coast; called jonquier--hence its name. These rods were used to hang the _craseaux_ on them. A _crase_, the singular of _craseaux_, is a lamp of the most primitive type."

"A vessel with a beak in which some oil is poured, and in the beak is placed a wick, while underneath the vessel another one is suspended as a receptacle for the oil which falls from the upper one. Only ten years ago we still used them. I remember it quite well."

"And these are what we call '_lattes_,'" she said, pointing to a wooden rack which hung suspended from the ceiling and parallel to it. "As you see, the bacon is kept there."

She stopped here, and looked anxiously at her father. He was pale and trembling. "Are you ill, father?" questioned his daughter.

"No, I'm not ill, although I do not feel quite well. Make me a _totae_," he said, "then I'll go to bed and try to sleep off my indisposition."

His daughter did as her father requested.

When she was out of the room, Frank asked Mr. Rougeant what he meant by a _totae_.

"Oh, it's a capital thing," responded the latter, "toasted bread soaked in warm cider. You swallow cider and all; if that does not drive a cold away, nothing will."

While the young lady was busily engaged in toasting the bread, Frank thought it best to take his leave.

Mr. Rougeant asked him to pay them a visit on the morrow. The young man promised to call. He managed to overcome his timidity sufficiently to raise his eyes as he took leave of Adele. Her eyes met his, she blushed and immediately dropped her eyelids.

Through the eyes the souls had spoken.

CHAPTER VII.

AN ABRUPT DISMISSAL.

Next day Frank Mathers prepared to pay his promised visit.

He fancied that he felt very much like William the Conqueror when he set out from Normandy to fight against the English. And probably he did.

While he was dressing with more than ordinary care, his thoughts were all about Adele.

"'Tis strange," he soliloquized, "such a well-bred, educated and refined young lady in this strange place. She is a rose among thistles,"--he had already formed his opinion of the master of "Les Marches."

"How lonely she must feel living with these two people, one a big-headed, and in proportion bigger-nosed man, the other, an old ignorant hag, her face of a dirty yellow, and her jaw! it reminds me of a species of fish which have a mouth that opens vertically--'Melanocetus Johnstoni'--I think the name is."

Here he finished soliloquizing and dressing.

He cast a glance over his clothes. "They don't appear to fit very well," he thought. "How strange that I had not noticed this before.

I feel disposed to put on my best coat instead of this one."

Then he tried to scoff these thoughts away and when they would not leave him, he called himself a simpleton, scolded himself for his fastidious taste, and resolved to start as he was.

It was two o'clock when he called out to his step-mother: "Mother!"

(this was a delicate piece of flattery); "I am going to see how the man I saved from drowning yesterday is getting on."

"Oh, all right, Frank," answered Mrs. Mathers, pleased to hear him calling her "mother."

The young man stepped out into the open air with a decided gait.

After an hour's walk he arrived at the farm-house, heated by his rapid journey.

He was courteously received by Adele at the door. On her devolved the duties of hostess, which she endeavoured to discharge conscientiously.

She led her guest into the parlour where Mr. Rougeant was seated before a fire in an easy-chair. Frank shook hands with him and inquired how he felt.

"Not too bad, thank you," he replied, and beckoning Frank to a chair close to him, he began to converse about his farm.

Frank listened and answered as well as he could, making a remark now and then about agriculture which astonished the farmer considerably.

He had the tact to respect Mr. Rougeant's feelings, and the latter was not slow in showing his appreciation of it.

"You seem to know more about farming than I do," remarked Mr.

Rougeant.

Frank felt flattered. He began to talk about agricultural chemistry, but he was soon stopped by his host.

"I don't believe in theory," interrupted Mr. Rougeant, "give me facts, show me results. A great many people write about farming who can hardly distinguish a parsnip from a carrot."

The young man dared not go against the farmer. He saw, by his manner, that he was not a man to be contradicted. He looked at Adele. She was smiling, but directly her father looked round towards her, her face became as grave as a nun's.

Mr. Rougeant continued triumphantly to talk about his farm. It was all the world to him, and almost the only thing about which he could converse.

He never read a book.

During the conversation Frank learnt that he had about one hundred vergees of land, one fifth of which he kept, the remainder was let to other farmers. He had but one workman, a man about sixty years old, who had worked for the Rougeants for more than forty years. His name was Jacques Dorant. Then, there was his horse; it was old now, but still good. Ah! when he was younger, he was a splendid horse, such strength, such form, such a fast trotter, frisky, but as gentle as a lamb.

Thought Frank: "If he is to be credited, there has never been such a horse since the days of Bucephalus, the famous horse of Alexander."