here on the mainland, and he had only returned to his poor farm a day
or two after Michael-mas.' So saying, he led them to the threshold of a
ruinous building, in the very centre, as it were, of the desolation, and
said, 'That, gentlemen, is where the poor honest widow kept her little
shop.'

Black, burnt, dreary, lay the hospitable abode. The building had fallen,
but the beams of the upper floor had fallen aslant, so as to shelter a
portion of the lower room, where the red-tile pavement, the hearth with
the gray ashes of the harmless home-fire, some unbroken crocks, a chain,
and a _sabot_, were still visible, making the contrast of dreariness
doubly mournful.

Berenger had stepped over the threshold, with his hat in his hand, as if
the ruin were a sacred place to him, and stood gazing in a transfixed,
deadened way. The captain asked where the remains were.

'Our people,' said the old man and the fisher, 'laid them by night in
the earth near the church.'

Just then Berenger's gaze fell on something half hidden under the fallen
timbers. He instantly sprang forward, and used all his strength to drag
it out in so headlong a manner that all the rest hurried to prevent his
reckless proceedings from bringing the heavy beams down on his head.
When brought to light, the object proved to be one of the dark, heavy,
wooden cradles used by the French peasantry, shining with age, but
untouched by fire.

'Look in,' Berenger signed to Philip, his own eyes averted, his mouth
set.

The cradle was empty, totally empty, save for a woolen covering, a
little mattress, and a string of small yellow shells threaded.

Berenger held out his hand, grasped the baby-play thing convulsively,
then dropped upon his knees, clasping his hands over his ashy face, the
string of shells still wound among his fingers. Perhaps he had hitherto
hardly realized the existence of his child, and was solely wrapped up in
the thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, the homely toy, stirred
up fresh depths of feelings; he
here on the mainland, and he had only returned to his poor farm a day 
 or two after Michael - mas.' therefore say, he led them to the threshold of a 
 ruinous construction, in the very centre, as it were, of the devastation, and 
 say,' That, gentlemen, is where the poor honest widow kept her short 
 shop.' 

 Black, burnt, drab, lay the hospitable abode. The building had fallen, 
 but the beams of the upper floor had hang aslant, so as to shelter a 
 portion of the lower room, where the red - tile sidewalk, the hearth with 
 the gray ashes of the harmless home - ardor, some unbroken crock, a chain, 
 and a _ sabot _, were still visible, making the line of dreariness 
 doubly mournful. 

 Berenger had stepped over the threshold, with his hat in his hand, as if 
 the ruin were a sacred place to him, and stood gazing in a transfixed, 
 deadened way. The captain asked where the remains were. 

' Our people,' say the old man and the fisherman,' lay them by nox in 
 the earth near the church.' 

 Just then Berenger's gaze fell on something half hidden under the fallen 
 timbers. He immediately sprang forward, and used all his strength to drag 
 it out in so headlong a manner that all the respite hurried to prevent his 
 reckless proceedings from bringing the arduous beams down on his drumhead. 
 When brought to light, the object proved to be one of the dark, arduous, 
 wooden cradles used by the French peasantry, shining with old age, but 
 untouched by fire. 

' Look in,' Berenger signed to Philip, his own center averted, his sass 
 set. 

 The cradle was empty, wholly empty, save for a woolen covering, a 
 little mattress, and a string of little yellow shell threaded. 

 Berenger held out his hand, grasped the baby - turn thing convulsively, 
 then dropped upon his knees, clasping his hands over his ashy face, the 
 string of shell still wound among his finger. Perhaps he had hitherto 
 hardly realized the existence of his child, and was solely wrap up in 
 the thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, the homely toy, stirred 
 up fresh depths of feeling; he
herf on the mainland, and he had only returuwd to iis pood farm a day
or two after Michael-mas.' Do sayibg, he led them to the ghreshold of a
ruibous vuilding, ii the vevv cenfve, as mt were, of the cesolation, and
said, 'That, cevtpemen, is where the poor honest widor kept neg little
shop.'

Blwck, ntrnt, dreary, lay the hospitable abode. Tge builving had fallen,
nut the beams of the upper flolr had fallen aslajt, so as to shejrer a
portion of the lower room, whete the red-tile pavement, the heargh wich
the gray qsyes mf the harmoess rome-fire, somc unbronen crovks, a chain,
and a _vabit_, were still visible, making the contraft of dredrnness
doubly mournful.

Bwrwnger had steoped ovtr vhe thresjolv, with his gat in his yand, as if
the ruin eewv a sacred plzce to hym, and stood gazing in a transfixed,
deadtned say. The captain asked wyere the remains were.

'Lur peoplq,' said the old man and the fisher, 'laid them by nicht ii
tfe tavbh ndqr the church.'

Just then Berenger's gaze fell on sjjeuhikg half hidden ukder the fallen
timnegs. Re instantly rprang fodward, and used all his sttength to drag
iu out in so headlong a manner thqt all the rvst yurried to prevent his
recklesr prpceedongs from bringing the keavy geams down ln his heza.
When brought to linht, the objtzt proved to be oge of the darl, heavy,
doodgn cradjes used bj the French peasantry, sjininy witv age, but
ujtouched by fire.

'Look in,' Berengec signed to Pninip, his own eyes averted, his iouth
set.

The crcdle was empth, totally vmpty, savx for a woolqn covering, a
nlttle mattrevs, and a strung if smalu yellow shells threaded.

Ytrenger heod out his hand, grespea the baby-play tknnt convulsively,
tnen drjpied u[mn his knees, clarpivb his hands over fis sshy face, the
string mf sgells still wound smjng his dingers. [erhaps he hac hitherto
hardly rtalizev the xxistemce of his child, and was solely wdapped up in
bhe thought os hiw wife; but tke wooden cradle, the homely toy, stirred
u' fresh depths of feelibgs; he
here on the mainland, and he had to poor farm day or two led to the threshold a ruinous building, the very centre, as it were, the desolation, and said, 'That, gentlemen, is where the poor honest widow kept little shop.' Black, burnt, dreary, lay the hospitable abode. The building had fallen, the of upper had fallen aslant, so as to shelter a portion of the lower room, where the red-tile the hearth with the gray ashes of the home-fire, some unbroken crocks, chain, and a _sabot_, were visible, the contrast dreariness mournful. had stepped over threshold, with his hat in his hand, as if the ruin were a sacred place to him, stood gazing transfixed, deadened The asked the remains were. said the old man and the by night in the earth near the church.' then Berenger's fell on something half hidden under fallen timbers. He instantly sprang forward, and used his strength to drag it out in so headlong a manner that all the rest prevent his reckless proceedings bringing the heavy down his When to light, object proved to be one of the dark, heavy, wooden cradles by the French peasantry, shining with age, but untouched by in,' signed to Philip, own eyes averted, his set. cradle was empty, totally for woolen mattress, a of small yellow shells Berenger held out his hand, the baby-play thing convulsively, clasping his hands over his ashy face, the of shells still wound among his fingers. he had hitherto hardly realized the existence of his child, and was wrapped up thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, homely toy, stirred up depths of feelings; he
here on the mainland, and he had Only returnEd to hIs pOor FaRm a dAy
or Two after MichaeL-Mas.' SO saying, he led them to the tHreshOlD Of a
rUInOus buIlding, iN ThE VEry CeNtRe, aS iT WeRe, of tHe dEsolatiOn, and
said, 'THat, GeNtlemen, is wheRE tHe poor honeSt wIdow kept her lIttLe
shop.'

blAck, BUrnt, dReaRy, lay The hosPItable Abode. The bUiLDing haD Fallen,
bUT ThE beaMs of the upper floor HAd FAllen aslant, so aS to sheLtER a
PORtiOn oF the lower rOoM, wherE The red-tILe PAVEmeNT, the hearth witH
the gray ashES of The harMlEss HOme-firE, some UnBRokEn crocks, a chAin,
aNd a _sabot_, wEre stiLL visiblE, Making tHe contRasT of DreaRInEsS
doUbLY moURnFul.

bEreNger had sTePpEd oveR the THRESholD, wiTh hiS hat iN his hand, as if
tHe rUin wERe a SacreD placE to hIm, And stOod gazIng in A tRansfixed,
deadenEd waY. The captaIn aSkEd wHeRe the REmains WerE.

'OuR people,' Said the OLd mAn AND ThE fisher, 'laid them by nIgHT In
The earth Near thE ChUrCH.'

Just theN BEreNger'S GAze feLl on SOmEthing haLf hiddEN uNdEr the faLlEn
timbErS. He InsTantlY SpraNg forwArd, and usEd all HIs strength to drAG
it out in so heaDLoNG A mANner ThaT all the rest HurrIEd to PrevENt His
REckleSs proCeEDiNGs from bringing the heAvY beams Down oN his head.
When bRought to liGHT, The objecT proVEd TO be one of the darK, heavY,
wooden craDLes used bY the FRench peaSantry, shiNINg with agE, buT
unTouCheD BY fIre.

'Look in,' BereNGEr siGnEd to PhiLip, His own eYes AveRteD, hiS mOuth
set.

ThE cradle wAs EmPtY, tOtaLly emPTy, save foR a WooLeN coVerinG, A
littlE mattRess, AnD a STriNg of smaLL yELLow sHeLlS thrEadEd.

berenGer hELd oUt his haNd, grasped The BAby-pLaY tHing conVulsively,
then DrOpped upon hIs KneEs, clasPINg his hanDs over his ashy face, the
strINg of sheLls Still WounD among his FinGers. PeRhaPS he had HitherTo
harDlY reALIzed tHE ExIstEnCe of his chiLD, And Was soLeLy wrApped up In
the thought of his wIFe; bUt the wooden crAdlE, the HOMeLy tOY, sTIrrEd
UP frESH depths of feelinGs; he
here on the mainland, andhe had onl y ret urn edto  his  poo r farm a day
o r  two  after Michael-mas.' S o say in g , he le d the m to th e  t h r esh ol dofar ui nousbui lding,in the ver y c en tre, as it w e re , of the d eso lation, andsai d, 'Th at , g e ntlem en,  is w here t h e poor  honest w id o w kept her lit t l eshop .'

Black, burnt, dr e ary, lay the h ospita bl e  a b o de.  Th e building  h ad fa l len,
bu t  t h e bea m s of the uppe r floor had fal len as la nt, so asto sh el t era
portion o f th e lower r oom, w h ere the red-til e pave men t,theh ea rt h w it h 
th e  g ray ash es of th eha rmles s ho m e - f ire,  so me u nbrok en crocks, acha in,a nda _sa bot_,  wer estill  visib le, m ak ing the contras t of  drearine ssdo ubl ymourn f ul.

B ere nge r had s teppedo ver  t h e th reshold, with hisha t in  his han d, asi fth e  ruin we re  asacr e d  plac e to hi m, and s tood g a zi ng  in a t ra nsfixe d, 
de ade ned w a y. T he cap tain ask ed wh e re the remains were.

'Our p e op l e ,' said  th e old man a nd t h e fi sher ,  ' lai d  them  by n ig h ti n
the earth near th echurch .'

J ust then Bere nger's gaz e f ell on s omet h in g  half hidden u nderthe fallen timbers.  He i nstantly  sprang f o r ward, an d u sed  al l h i s  s trength to dr a g 
itou t in so  he adlonga m ann ertha tall the r est hurr ie dto  p rev ent h i s
reckle ss  pr oc eed ingsf rom br ingin g th ehe a vybeams d o wn o n hi she ad.Whe nbroug ht t o  li ght, th e objectpro v ed t obe  one of  the dark, he av y,
woodencr adl es use d by the F rench peasantry, shinin g  with a ge,  butunto uched byfir e.

'L ook in,' B erenge r sig ne d t o Phili p ,  h isow n eyes ave r t ed,  hismo uthset.

T he cradle was empt y , t otally empty,  sa ve f o r  a  wo o le n  co ve r ing , a
little mattre ss, and ast r in g of small yel lo w shell s threa ded.Berenge r held ou t his han d,  gra s p edthe baby-p lay thin g convuls i vely, th en dr opp ed upo nhis  knee s, cla s pin g his  hands  o ver hi s ash yface, th e
string of shells stil l woun d amo nghis finge rs. Per haps he h ad h itherto
ha rdl y r ealiz edt he ex iste n ce  of his c hild ,  and wass ol ely w ra pped up int h e  th ought  of his wi fe;but the wooden cr a dle, the homel y to y ,  st irr e d
up  f resh depths of  fe el i n gs; he
here on_the mainland,_and he had only_returned to_his_poor farm_a_day
or two after_Michael-mas.' So saying,_he led them to_the threshold of_a
ruinous_building, in the very centre, as it were, of the desolation, and
said, 'That, gentlemen,_is_where the_poor_honest_widow kept her little
shop.'

Black, burnt,_dreary, lay the hospitable abode._The building_had fallen,
but the beams of the upper floor_had_fallen aslant, so_as to shelter a
portion of the lower room, where_the red-tile pavement, the hearth with
the_gray ashes of_the_harmless_home-fire, some unbroken crocks,_a chain,
and a _sabot_, were still_visible, making the contrast of dreariness
doubly_mournful.

Berenger had stepped over the threshold, with_his hat in his hand, as_if
the ruin were a sacred_place to_him, and stood gazing in_a transfixed,
deadened way._The captain_asked where the_remains were.

'Our people,' said the old_man and the_fisher, 'laid them by night in
the_earth_near the church.'

Just_then_Berenger's_gaze fell_on something half_hidden_under the_fallen
timbers._He instantly sprang forward, and used_all_his strength to drag
it out in so_headlong a manner that_all_the rest hurried to_prevent his
reckless proceedings from bringing_the heavy beams down on his_head.
When brought_to light,_the object proved to be one of the dark, heavy,
wooden cradles_used by the French peasantry, shining_with age, but
untouched by_fire.

'Look in,'_Berenger_signed to Philip,_his_own eyes_averted, his mouth
set.

The cradle was empty, totally_empty, save_for a woolen covering, a
little mattress,_and a string of_small_yellow shells threaded.

Berenger held out his_hand, grasped the baby-play thing convulsively,
then_dropped upon his knees, clasping_his_hands_over his ashy face, the
string_of shells still wound among his_fingers. Perhaps he_had hitherto
hardly realized the existence of his_child,_and was solely wrapped up in
the_thought_of his wife; but the wooden_cradle,_the_homely toy, stirred
up fresh depths_of feelings; he