can not keep any secrets from you. I know this story, and I will tell it you in a few words; nothing easier. "How did it come about, Monsieur l'Abbé," I said to him one day, "that with your brains and education you resigned yourself to be the curé of a little village?" He replied, with a sad smile: "It is easier to be the pastor of poor peasants than of townspeople. Everyone must cut his coat according to his cloth." "That is why," said I, "you ought to be in a better position." "I was once told," he went on, "that your uncle, the Bishop of N, had deigned to notice me in order to offer me the curé of Sainte Marie; it is the best in the diocese. My old aunt, who is my only surviving relative, and who lives at N, said that it was a very desirable position for me. But I am all right here, and I learnt with pleasure that the bishop had made another choice. What does it matter to me? Am I not happy at Noirmoutiers? If I can do a little good here it is my place; I ought not to leave it. Besides, town life reminds me.…" He stopped, his eyes became sad and dreamy, then, recovering himself suddenly, he said, "We are not working at our botany.…" I could not think any longer of the litter of old hay on the table, and I continued my questions. "When did you take orders?"
