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At the steepest point of the hill there was a little

burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour

on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced

rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life--his

own life, maybe--for it was dreadfully spare and thin.

To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been

growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling.

She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly,

and presented herself at the carriage-door.

"It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition."

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable

face, Monseigneur looked out.

"How, then! What is it? Always petitions!"

"Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the

forester."

"What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you

people. He cannot pay something?"

"He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead."

"Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?"