We risked our lives last voyage, and are ready to risk them again, to make money."

"But Captain Rhines, Uncle Isaac, Lion Ben, our Joe, and Charlie Bell risked their lives to save yours and the captain's."

"Yes; and see what Captain Rhines has done since for our captain and his mother's family."

"You know what Uncle Isaac's last words were, Ned. I shall never forget them; they keep coming up. 'What I now like most to think about, boys, ain't what I've done for myself, but to help others.'"

"I'm sure, Walter, I feel just so; but I don't know what we can do like them. If Uncle Isaac was alive, he could tell us."

"Nor I, either; but I don't mean to wait to do some great thing to make a sound, but take hold of the first thing that comes up."

"I'm bound to do what you do, Wal. But come, I'm rested; let's go on."

Descending the hill to the valley, they beheld a most lively scene. Men, women, and children were busily employed gathering olives, which were now ripe, and looked similar to a ripe damson. Some were in the trees, shaking them from the branches, others beating them off with poles, and still others picking up and loading upon mules and asses, which stood near, with wicker panniers across their backs. They were also loading into the queerest-looking carts imaginable—the wheels solid, made of two layers of planks, with a short piece on each side to increase the thickness and the bearing, and take the place of a hub. To some of these carts oxen were attached, yoked by the horns; and every time these wheels turned they made a doleful screeching.

"I should think," said Ned, "if they are making oil, they might afford enough to grease their wheels."

"So should I. Look at those women, Ned," pointing to three who were bearing off sacks on their shoulders, filled with olives. "What a way that is, lading women, and letting asses and mules stand still!"

Great were the surprise and delight of the boys, upon approaching, to recognize in the peasant who had first attracted their attention Gabriel Quesnard, with whom they had become quite familiar, as he had often been to the vessel with eggs, poultry, and vegetables, and the captain had always invited him to eat with him. It was also from him they had bought the honey a few days before.

Gabriel welcomed them most warmly. He could speak English fluently, having had constant intercourse with English and American captains for many years of his youth, when he was a porter at Marseilles; nevertheless, he seemed highly gratified when Ned addressed him in the peculiar dialect of Provence.

"I am most happy to see you, citizens," said he. Quesnard was a thorough radical, a believer in fraternity and equality, and an ardent member of the very party that had pulled down convents, levelled distinctions, destroyed the Bastile, executed the king, guillotined nobles, and turned France upside down. But, for all that, he possessed a kind and generous nature, and was a most excellent husband and father. Though without education, he was a shrewd, discerning man, thoroughly versed in all the local politics and traditions of his country. If he could neither read nor write, he had nevertheless thought much, listened well, and observed closely, been a constant attendant at the assemblies of the people, and an actor in all the terrible scenes of the first years of the revolution. Like many others of the more reflective and intelligent portion of the inhabitants of the southern provinces, he was satisfied when those abominable extortions, levied upon the peasantry both by clergy and nobles under the name of "seignioral rights," or, as it was sometimes called, "the servitude of the soil," were swept away, joined the more moderate party, who thought blood enough had been shed, and were opposed to the savage fanatics, who, in the name of liberty, slew all whom they either hated or feared.

"You find us busy, citizens," he said; "for it is the olive-harvest, and we are later about it than common; but it is now nearly time to leave work. You will go with me to my poor house, and pass the night."

"We thank you kindly," said Ned; "but we are sailors, accustomed to being out of doors, and all kinds of exposure. After being so long penned up on shipboard, we wish to stretch our limbs, see the country, and crops, how the people live, and have made up our minds to sleep on the side of yonder hill, in this sweet air."

"It is winter-time, and the nights are long and cool."

"This weather is summer to us. We came from a country where the winters are severe. We have blankets, and are used to sleeping on the soft side of a plank."

"But your food, citizens."

"We have plenty of provision in our packs."

Gabriel not seeming at all reconciled to this, and still urging the claims of hospitality, Walter told him they wished to go farther to see the face of the country, productions, and manner in which the people lived.

"And how can you see in what fashion the people live if you don't go into their homes, and eat and drink with them?"

"We couldn't see the country in the house," replied Walter. "We will sleep on the hill-side to-night, to-morrow travel farther to please ourselves, and, on our return, stop at your house to gratify you."

"By that time," said Gabriel, "we hope to be more at leisure for sociability and a good time."

"I've seen olives before," said Walter, "in Spain, and eaten them; but they were green. These are violet."

"That was because they were unripe. These are ripe. I used to sell the greater part of mine green before the blockade."

"What do you do to them when you sell them in that way?"

"Soak them ten hours in lye, afterwards a week in cold water, then put them in brine, with some sweet herbs. That is all. Some only put them in brine."

"What are you going to do with these?"

"Press them for oil."

"What a great tree this is that you are gathering now!" said Ned. "Let's see if we can clasp it, Walter."

Putting their arms around the tree, they were barely able to touch the tips of their fingers.

"I didn't know olive trees grew so large," said Walter. "None of the others here are half as large as this. How brown the bark looks! and great furrows in it, just like an old willow, and the leaves look like willow leaves. It is hollow, too, and covered with warts."

"Yes, because it is so old."

"How old is it?"

"God only knows; perhaps as old as the world."

"As old as the world?"

"Yes, citizens, it might have been the first one made."

"The first one made!"

"Well, nobody ever knew one to die, except it was burnt, cut down, or killed by the frost. They can't bear the frost. A few years ago, most of the trees in the low ground were hurt by the frost, but this, being on higher ground, escaped. I don't believe they ever die of their own accord."

"How long is it," asked Walter, "after they are planted, before they bear?"

"They bear a few olives in ten or twelve years, but not much of a crop till they are twenty-five or thirty."

"Don't they lose their leaves?"

"A part of the leaves turn yellow, as you see, in the fall, but they are never bare; and in the spring the new ones push off the old ones."

"Do they bear every year?"

"No, every other: they work one year for themselves, and one for the owner."

"Do they yield much oil?"

"A hundred weight of clean olives makes about thirty or thirty-two pounds of oil."

"How much oil will a big tree, like that we have clasped, make?"

"This year that tree has about one hundred and forty livres (pounds)."

"How much oil will they make?"

"About a barrel—twenty of your gallons."

"What is it worth?"

"Three francs (sixty cents) a gallon; but then we raise other crops among the olives."

"But I suppose they are like our crops that we raise in the orchards—rather light?"

"Yes; but the olive will grow on poor land, endure the drought, and