over her brow, he jumped up and exclaimed: "Oh, mamma, do not look at me so; I will never disobey you any more."

The mother took the now repentant son upon her knees, and, after having shown him the consequences of disobedience; after having spoken to him of the pain which he caused her through showing a disposition to do wrong and of the sin which he committed, she instructed him tenderly, and made an impression on his soft heart, such as a mother alone knows how to make. Then she kissed her son. "You forgive me, then?" said the boy. "Yes, my dear, I forgive you."

Frank Mathers was so impressed with his mother's love that he silently determined never again to grieve her. "Now let me change your clothes. You might catch a severe cold and perhaps be ill for weeks after this. Do you feel ill?"

"No, mamma, I am cold, that is all."

When Frank was eating his supper that evening, his heart was full of thankfulness. "What a good mother I have," he thought, "I will never do anything contrary to her orders any more." He suddenly stopped eating. The thought of the porker struck him and he called out gently: "Mamma."

"What is it my dear?"

"A dead pig came running after me."

Mrs. Mathers looked somewhat anxiously at her son. Was his mind going out?

"They had killed a pig at a farm, and when they were gone to fetch some water, the porker jumped down and came running after me," said the little boy.

The slight shock which the mother had received, had sufficed to flush her cheek.

There was something strange in that bright tint on her face, it glowed with a strange light. Her eye had a kind, but far away glance; an almost divine expression. It was full of tenderness and melancholy. She seemed to belong to some other world then; her whole soul seemed to shine in that sweet face. This was how she looked as she gazed upon her son that evening, while he was finishing his supper, seemingly not at all astonished at his mother's silence. He had grown accustomed to these moments of pensiveness on his mother's part. Of late, she often fell into a strange reverie, and little Frank was yet too young to understand these symptoms always followed by a short, hollow cough. His mother was attacked with phthisis.

When he had finished his supper, Frank again turned towards his mother.

"How can a dead pig run?" he asked.

"The pig was not dead," said his mother; "now make haste and go to bed. I don't want to have to nurse you to-morrow."

The little boy obeyed, muttering to himself: "The pig was dead. I believe what I have seen. Mamma must have misunderstood me."

CHAPTER II.

iss Rader was a tall, stiff, sour-faced lady of four-and-fifty. She kept a school for young country ladies at a place called "Fardot," in one of the parishes adjoining the Forest.

Among the pupils who were unfortunate enough to fall under her harsh rule was a certain little girl whose name was Adèle Rougeant. She was the daughter of an avaricious farmer who lived at "Les Marches," in the parish of the Forest.

This little girl's mother had now been dead three years. Adèle was then only four years of age.

"You will place our daughter at Miss Rader's school till she is seven years of age," were the instructions of Mrs. Rougeant to her husband on her death-bed.

This was not all; Mr. Rougeant was solicited by his wife to place Adèle for ten years at a boarding-school in "the town," where she would receive an education such as pertained to her rank and fortune.

Mr. Rougeant would gladly have sent his daughter to the parish school, till the age of fourteen. Afterwards, he would have had her taught to work. He would have had to pay only one penny a week at the parish school, whereas he now paid five pence. Soon, he would have to disburse from fifty to sixty pounds a year for Adèle's sake. "What extravagance," he muttered between his teeth. But he dared not go against his promises to his dying wife. Mr. Rougeant was superstitious. "If I fail to fulfil my promises to my dying wife, I shall most certainly see her ghost;" he said to himself. So he preferred to part with a portion of his income in exchange for a life unmolested by apparitions.

It was the month of August of the same year in which the events narrated in the preceding chapter occurred. The pupils of Miss Rader were all assembled to receive the prizes which they were supposed to have won.

The reward-books were handed to the pupils by an elderly lady—Mrs. Lebours. She was standing in front of the row of young girls, surrounded by half-a-dozen satellites of her own sex. Miss Rader was sitting near the group of "young ladies."

Mrs. Lebours began: "First prize for French has been won by Adèle Rougeant, but the committee of ladies have decided that as she is about to pursue her studies elsewhere, she will not receive the prize. It will be given to the one next to her, who is going to remain under Miss Rader's excellent tuition."

This little speech having been delivered by Mrs. Lebours, who meanwhile flourished the reward-book; Miss Rader approached Adèle, and tapping her unkindly on the shoulder, she whispered to her in a whistling tone, her snaky eyes expressing the kindliness of a tiger: "You see what you gain through wanting to leave my school; you lose a beautiful book."

Adèle was not unhappy. On the contrary; she experienced an elevating, martyr-like sensation. She turned towards Miss Rader.

"I have earned it?" she questioned.

"Yes, but——."

"I am satisfied," she said; then, quoting as near as she could a phrase which had attracted her attention in one of the rare books which she had cast her childish eyes upon, she added, "We do not go to school to obtain prizes, but to acquire knowledge."

Miss Rader was seated in her former place when Adèle finished. Her upper lip was slightly curled up, she was gazing upon Adèle with a look of supreme contempt.

The distribution of prizes was soon finished. The children were dismissed for the holidays and sent home. Adèle bore her little head up proudly. She had been wronged. She felt a thrill of pleasure as she entered her home at "Les Marches."

In acting as they had done, the committee of ladies had placed themselves lower than her. She felt it, and prided herself upon being ever so much better than they were. When her father came in she called out to him: "I earned a prize, but they would not give it me as I was going to leave school."

"Humph!" he said moodily, "I am afraid you over-estimate your intellectual capacities. Carry this letter to your uncle Tom at the 'Prenoms.'"

And he handed his daughter a scrap of paper.

Adèle did immediately as she was bid, not daring to speak when she heard her father's gruff tone.

The farm of the "Prenoms" was only half a mile distant from "Les Marches," and Adèle did the distance in ten minutes.

She gave the letter to her uncle. "You will have to wait for a reply," he said.

Her uncle was a man who never said more than was absolutely necessary.

"Seat yourself; here is a chair for you," said her aunt.

Adèle took the preferred chair, and her aunt began to question her.

"So you are going to a boarding school," she said; and Adèle felt that there was something sarcastic in her tone.

"Papa wants