But the evil is forgotten; the good lives.

And if all that good save one act were buried with him, this one act alone, the act of a French gentleman, would be told of him--ay! and will be told--as long as the kingdom of France, and the gracious memory of the late king, shall endure.
* * * * * I see again by the simple process of shutting my eyes, the little party of five--for Jean, our servant, had rejoined us--who on that summer day rode over the hills to Caylus, threading the mazes of the holm-oaks, and galloping down the rides, and hallooing the hare from her form, but never pursuing her; arousing the nestling farmhouses from their sleepy stillness by joyous shout and laugh, and sniffing, as we climbed the hill-side again, the scent of the ferns that died crushed under our horses' hoofs--died only that they might add one little pleasure more to the happiness God had given us.

Rare and sweet indeed are those few days in life, when it seems that all creation lives only that we may have pleasure in it, and thank God for it.

It is well that we should make the most of them, as we surely did of that day.
It was nightfall when we reached the edge of the uplands, and looked down on Caylus.

The last rays of the sun lingered with us, but the valley below was dark; so dark that even the rock about which our homes clustered would have been invisible save for the half-dozen lights that were beginning to twinkle into being on its summit.