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The avocat and his daughter lived quietly in the old place, hoping, after a general fashion, for better times, but not finding the present very bad; the father becoming day by day more pleasant with his bargain, the daughter growing fonder of the great house, and the noble bocages, of the scrappy little vineyards, struggling for existence on the sunny hill-side, and the place where the famous shrine had been.
A youthful, vigorous soul lay in the glance which was fixed upon this cup; she understood every thing. There was a cage with an imprisoned bird; beneath this a verse: "Ce n'est pas un moineau, Garde dans cette cage, C'est un de ces oiseaux, Qui chantent dans L'orage. Ouvrez, amis des sages, Brisez fers et verroux; Les chants dans vos bocages, Rejailliront pour vous."
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