Well might they call him "the fool," poor Sylvestre Ker! Not that he had less brains than another man,-on the contrary, he was now very learned-but love crazes him who places his affections on an unworthy object.

Sylvestre Ker's little finger was worth two dozen Pol Bihan's and fifty Matheline's; in spite of which Matheline and Pol Bihan were perfectly just in their contempt, for he who ascends the highest falls lowest.

When Sylvestre had re-entered the tower, Pol commenced to sigh heavily, and said,-

"What a pity! What a great, great pity!"

"What is a pity?" asked Sylvestre Ker.

"It is a pity to miss such a rare opportunity."

Sylvestre Ker exclaimed, "What opportunity? So you were listening to my conversation with Matheline?"

"Why, yes," replied Pol. "I always have an ear open to hear what concerns you, my true friend. Seven years! Shall I tell you what I think? You would only have twelve months to wait to go with your mother to another Christmas Mass."

"I have promised," said Sylvestre.

"That is nothing: if your mother loves you truly, she will forgive you."

"If she loves me!" cried Sylvestre Ker. "Oh, yes, she loves me with her whole heart."

Some chestnuts still remained, and Bihan shelled one while he said,-

"Certainly, certainly, mothers always love their children; but Matheline is not your mother. You are one-eyed, you are lame, and you have sold your little patrimony to buy your furnaces. Nothing remains of it. Where is the girl that can wait seven years? Nearly the half of her age!... If I were in your place, I would not throw away my luck as you are about to do, but at the hour of Matins I would work for my happiness."

Sylvestre Ker was standing before the fireplace. He listened, his eyes bent down, with a frown upon his brow.

"You have spoken well," at last he said; "my dear mother will forgive me. I shall remain, and will work at the hour of Matins."

"You have decided for the best!" cried Bihan. "Rest easy; I will be with you in case of danger. Open the door of your laboratory. We will work together; I will cling to you like your shadow!"

Sylvestre Ker did not move, but looked fixedly upon the floor, and then, as if thinking aloud, murmured,-

"It will be the first time I have ever caused my dear mother sorrow!"

He opened a door, but not that of the laboratory, pushed Pol Bihan outside, and said,-

"The danger is for myself alone; the gold will be for all. Go to the Christmas Mass in my place; say to Matheline that she will be rich, and to my dear mother that she will have a happy old age, since she will live and die with her fortunate son."