of very common law, now brought to a
termination, we will see to it that the lawyers
shall not be his heirs.

VILLAGE ROSES AND THORNS.

THE village of Auray-le-Clocher was situated
on the side of a hill, basking in sunshine. At
the back, up to the summit, and rolling down
the other slope, and up and down again for
miles and miles of hill and valley, spread vast
woods, which kept from Auray all bitter winds;
while below it, the ground ran down gently to
a broad and fertile vale, watered by a little river;
here showing itself in glittering silver, there
marking its course by rows of poplars and
willows, and by mills, with a few cottages clustered
about them. At the entrance of the single, rough-
paved village street, guiltless of trottoirs, and
with a gutter in the middle, stood the church, and
enclosed with it, the presbytère and its ample
garden.

A contempt of economy of space and of any
approach to regularity, seemed to be the ruling
principles of the architect of the house in question.
Inhabited only by the curé, his single
maidservant, and a little boy, of nine or ten years
old, the orphan nephew of the latter, there were
rooms enough to accommodate a large family,
and, as if such unnecessary employment of space
were insufficient to suit the large ideas of the
builder, these were all placed far apart, and
connected by such labyrinthine passages, such ups
and downs of little flights of steps, such blind
landings and break-neck corridors, that it
required an intimate acquaintance with the house
to make your way through it at all.

On the ground floor (you entered the
premises by the garden, there being no door on the
street, which there was bounded by the side-
wall of the house and the wall of the garden) a
large kitchen and wash-house, a sort of store-
room, and a particularly gloomy stone-floored
sitting-room, almost entirely bare of furniture,
opened, with window-doors on the paved space
that lay in front of the house, and divided it
from the garden. Above was the salon,
habitually occupied by the curé: a large, cheerful,
though low, room, walled with panels once white,
and bearing some rude carvings here and there,
especially over the lofty mantelpiece, also carved.
The floor, of octagonal red tiles, was covered
in the middle with a small square carpet, worn
and faded; on the panelling hung gaudy-
coloured prints, with here and there a tolerable
old engraving or bad lithograph, all more or less
touched with mildew, and representing saints
and innumerable Virgins—"Our Ladies" of so
many localities—and in each invested with such
different functions and attributes, that how to
reconcile these ubiquitous diversities with a sole
and singular individuality I have always found a
paradox quite beyond my skill. A crazy
bookshelf, containing some old theological books,
was suspended opposite the wide fireplace; a
small organ, on which the curé was wont to
practise chants, stood in a recess, beside a
pleasant window hung round with climbing
roses, and commanding, through the trees of the
garden, peeps of the valley beyond. A round
table of dark wood, somewhat rickety on its
four slender legs, occupied the centre of the
room; a second, more solid, which was drawn
forward when the curé took his simple repasts,
stood in front of the window at the end of the
room looking towards the church; and an old
mahogany Empire arm-chair, with squab cushion,
and half a dozen smaller rush-bottomed chairs
and a corner cupboard, completed the furniture
of the room. It was entered by an outer stair-
case, leading down to the garden, which now
basked in June sunshine.

In front of the house a few orange and
pomegranate trees stood in cases, once painted
green, but now with the colour peeling off,
and in but sorry condition. Beyond, came the
garden—squares of vegetables, bordered with
flowers; then a tonnelle, or trellised arbour,
clothed with vine, the delicious chasselas, or
sweet-water grape, commonly grown in French
gardens; and still further down the slope of the
hill, a little nook, closely sheltered with some
fine chesnut, poplar, and locust trees, and
watered by a tiny stream, that found its way
into the enclosure by one little opening at the
bottom of the palings, and out by a similar gap
at the opposite side. To the left lay a poultry-
yard, with pigeon-house above and rabbit-
hutches below the hens' dormitory; at the same
side, a screen of poplars only divided the curé's
territory from the back of the church, where
stood the little postern that admitted him at all
times within the sacred walls.

Up and down, in the shade, beside the
gurgling brook, the curé paced, reading in his
breviary one of the portions allotted for daily
perusal. He was an old man, but tall, upright,
hale, and hearty, and his firm equal step
betokened none of the infirmities of age. A tranquil,
temperate, simple life had maintained in
prolonged vigour a naturally strong frame and
constitution; and a frank, kindly, though not
very intellectual countenance, fresh-coloured,
and but little lined, seemed indicative of that
most enviable temperament that "takes the
goods the gods provide" with cheerful thankfulness,
and that troubles itself but little without
serious and real cause for so doing.

His reading finished, the curé looked at his
watch, and found dinner-time drew near; so he
turned his steps, nowise reluctantly, towards the
house, pausing here and there in his progress
up the sanded alley to pick the blight off some
pet rose-trees (he was a great amateur of roses),
to disencumber it of fading blossoms, or to
gather some particularly beautiful specimen, to
stand in a wine-glass on the top of the organ,
that he might enjoy its loveliness and perfume
while he played.

Clattering about in sabots, on the pavement
in front of the house, was little Claude, the
nephew of Jeanne, the curé's servant.

"I say, little one," said the good man, " tell