confused memory to his mind. In that room, badly lighted by a meagre lamp, there was a fresh, light-haired young man, with a merry face, who amid loud bursts of laughter was embracing a very audaciously attired young girl; and near the lamp sat an old crone spinning and singing in a quavering voice.

As the young man did not laugh constantly, fragments of the old woman’s ditty reached the priest; it was something unintelligible yet frightful, —

“Gr�ve, aboie, Gr�ve, grouille! File, file, ma quenouille, File sa corde au bourreau, Qui siffle dans l� pre(au, Gr�ve, aboie, Gr�ve, grouille!

“La belle corde de chanvre! Semez d’Issy jusqu’� Vanvre Du chanvre et non pas du bl�(. Le voleur n’a pas vole( La belle corde de chanvre.