But on the other side of the great granite hill, on the crown and slopes of which the quaint old city is built, are villages too, as well as solitary houses and cottages scattered over the plain or hidden among the forests. These cottages are for the most part very humble and old fashioned dwellings, low buildings of one storey, oftener still consisting of only a ground floor with two or three rooms, in the larger of which a huge oven takes up nearly the whole of one side; pigs, cocks and hens, accompanied by their little families, may often be observed by the passer-by to be as much at home on the clay floor of the untidy and unsavoury apartment, as its human occupants are. The most conspicuous article of furniture is generally a spinning-wheel, while a large rough deal table and a few rickety chairs are to be found in every cottage. Though such uncleanly and uninviting dwellings are for the most part, unfortunately, the rule among the Breton peasantry, there are many and pleasing exceptions. Let us pay a visit to one of these, to the neat pretty cottage of the old peasant proprietor, Jacques Plumier, about a mile and a half from Dinan. Small indeed is the cottage, it is built of brick with thatched roof, and contains only two rooms; the clay floor is well swept, scarcely a speck of dust can be seen on it, the kitchen utensils which hang over the great open fire place are bright and polished; the tables and chairs, though they look so old that they must surely have descended from the days of the "Grand Monarque," outliving all the revolutions which France has suffered since his reign, have evidently been carefully mended by an experienced joiner. On one side of the fire place stands a comfortable and more modern-looking armchair, provided too with a cushion. On the walls are some gaudy prints, in which bright colours take the place of correct drawing and good taste; there is an old portrait of Louis XVI., another of Charles X., proving that this house, like so many in Brittany, belongs to a Royalist family; there are, too, several pictures of Napoleon surrounded by his generals, who are arrayed

in all the colours of the rainbow, and who are generally regarding with satisfaction a battle-field strewn with the dead and dying. In one corner of the room is a crucifix with a bénitier1 under it, and in the other an almanack, which gives little information except the names of the Saints, of which there is conveniently one for every day in the year. On a shelf are ranged some halfdozen very old and much-worn books.

The inner room is smaller, almost the only furniture it contains are two beds, of which the coverings are clean and white.

A remarkably tidy and well-kept garden surrounds the cottage. There are beautiful rose-trees in full bloom, a honeysuckle is trained to climb up over the door and window, tall holly-hocks and brilliant sunflowers stand just before the little gate; there are, too, a few beds of geraniums and fuchsias, as well as violets and mignonette. A kitchen garden adjoins the flower garden; here are cabbages in abundance, onions, garlic, endive, celery, and potatoes, a few raspberry and gooseberry bushes, and some carefully-tended strawberry beds; behind this again is a little patch of ground, on part of which some corn is growing, the other portion is grass, and here a small cow is grazing. Built up against the cottage is a low out-house, containing a stable for the cow, and a sty for two fat pigs. The owner of this property is evidently a well-to-do peasant ; let us hasten to introduce him to our readers. He is sitting now in the armchair beside the fire place; we cannot see his face, for it is buried in his hands; some great sorrow has come upon the poor man-what is it?

The conscription is the cause of his trouble-that conscription which is a curse to the French peasantry, and has so often blighted the industry of the nation. Jacques Plumier had just heard the sad news that his only son Pierre had been drawn for the army. Pierre was his joy, and the pride, the support of

1 Vessel for holy water common in Roman Catholic families.

his declining years, the mainstay of the little household; it was owing to Pierre's diligence, steadiness, and perseverance that the cottage was kept so neat and tidy, that the pretty garden looked so trim and was so productive; it was through Pierre's savings that a cow was grazing in the little field, and two pigs were grunting in the sty. Pierre had lost his mother when he was quite a boy-a heavy blow had her death been to both husband and son-but Pierre had ever since devoted himself with affectionate solicitude to his father, attended to all his wants, nursed him in sickness, and worked hard that he might have to labour less. He had only left him during the time that he went to Paris to learn his trade, and an anxious period that was for the loving father; but Pierre returned uncorrupted from the capital, and now he worked even harder than before. He was apprenticed to one of the best cabinet-makers in Dinan, from whom he received very good wages. Morning and evening he was able to attend to the garden and the field, which his father would work at too when he was at home, but he also had regular employment at a nursery-garden a little outside the town. A happier, more innocent life than that of this father and son, it would be impossible to conceive. Since Pierre's visit to Paris, his prospects, too, had considerably brightened, through his engagement to Josephine Laforce, to whom he was devotedly attached. In a few months it had been settled that the wedding should take place, for Pierre was quite able to support a wife now; they were to live at the same cottage with old Jacques Plumier, who was looking forward with pleasure to welcoming his daughter-in-law to her new home.

Josephine's prospects were indeed especially bright and happy. Pierre was so good, so steady, so pious, his complete devotion to his father proved the affectionate nature of his character. All had combined to favour the future of the young affianced couple,

And now the ruthless conscription, which had certainly been looked forward to with some apprehension by Pierre, had suddenly blighted all their hopes. For seven long years Pierre would have to serve in the army, and until they were past he and Josephine could not be united in marriage, and who dare predict what might happen during that time? How would his father, who was now getting old, and often was afflicted with rheumatism, be able alone to cultivate the little garden and plot of ground? and if he should fall sick, who would there be to nurse him and attend to him, as Pierre had done so tenderly when he had been ill before? Yes, indeed, a sore trouble had fallen upon the inmates of this little Breton cottage.

Poor Jacques Plumier sat with his face buried in his hands. He had just heard the bad news, every minute he was expecting his son to return home. It was a bright summer evening, the sun was pouring golden rays through the little casement, they fell upon the long silvery hair of the venerable peasant, they lighted up the bright-coloured prints upon the wall, and seemed like messengers from heaven sent to cheer the old man's heart, and to remind him that "to every cloud there is a silver lining."

Then he heard the latch of the garden-gate, immediately after the door opened, and Pierre stood before him. The old man raised his head, his eyes were full of tears as they gazed up at his darling son.

Pierre was a good-looking lad, rather over twenty, with pleasing though not handsome features. His countenance was bright and intelligent, and no one could fail to be struck with the gentle and kindly look which beamed from his dark eyes. He was dressed in the rough, brown home-spun serge of the Breton peasantry, and wore a blue cloth cap, which he took off and threw down on the table when he entered the room. For a few moments not a word was said; Pierre looked grave and sad, but there was no indication on his face of that

thorough despair which seemed to have taken possession of the old man's mind. Youth is generally hopeful, and looks at the bright side of everything. Pierre spoke at last, but he could not repress a sigh.

"Well! my father, you have heard the news, for ill-tidings, we all know, fly fast enough; alas! alas! it is bad indeed. Seven years service in the army for me-not that I mind that, you know, for every Frenchman should love to be a soldier. I am quite ready to fight for my country, but then what will you do, father, all that time? And poor Josephine, how sorry she will be. Seven years to wait before we can be married,

and no one to help you to keep up the garden and our field, which look so nice and tidy now!"

"Cheer

A sob from the old man interrupted him. "Cheer up, father!" said Pierre in a happier tone. up; perhaps after all, it won't be so bad for you; we have plenty of kind neighbours and friends. There is Etienne, who is always so good-natured and ready to do me a good turn, he felt quite sure he would be drawn by the conscription, and he has got off and is so pleased at it. I shall ask him to come in and help you now and then. I know he will, for since we were three years old, he and I have been like brothers; then old Jeannette, who does not live half a kilométre off, will come and do you little services if you want them; perhaps, too, I may be quartered near, and can come and see you occasionally. Won't you like to see me in the red trousers, father, with a képi on my head, and a chassepôt too? How smart I shall look!"

"Oh Pierre,” cried the old man, "I can't bear to think of parting with you! Can't we get a substitute? Can we not sell this piece of land that you and I have worked so hard to purchase; the cow too, and the pigs, and so buy you off?"

"No, father," said Pierre, "even if we sold them all, we should not have enough-if the cottage and garden which we