of each other, and were religious and good citizens in a high-bred, punctilious way.
At that time the Seigneur was all health and stalwart strength. But one day a rumour went abroad that he had quarrelled with his son because of the wife of Farette the miller. No one outside knew if the thing was true, but Julie, the miller’s wife, seemed rather to plume herself that she had made a stir in her little world. Yet the curious habitants came to know that the young man had gone, and after a few years his having once lived there had become a mere memory. But whenever the Little Chemist set foot inside the tall porch he remembered; the Avocat was kept in mind by papers which he was called upon to read and alter from time to time; the Curé never forgot, because when the young man went he lost not one of his flock but two; and Medallion, knowing something of the story, had wormed a deal of truth out of the miller’s wife. Medallion knew that the closed, barred rooms were the young man’s; and he knew also that the old man was waiting, waiting, in a hope which he never even named to himself.
One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion’s door, and simply said to him: "Come—the Seigneur!"
Medallion went, and for hours sat beside the Seigneur’s chair, while the Little Chemist watched and sighed softly in a corner, now and again rising to feel the sick man’s pulse or to prepare a cordial. The housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, and when the Seigneur dropped his handkerchief—now, as always, of the exquisite fashion of a past century—she put it gently in his hand.
Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his
