I was even childishly happy: I could have sung aloud in very gaiety of heart to the chiming bells of the Flemish teams and the carillons of the churches. The leaves, the streams, the hills, the skies, all seemed to sparkle and to smile. It was warm and light and fresh: the woods were full of wild flowers, the fields were green with the long hay-grasses, the sweet smell of the firs came into the valley on every breath that blew. Ah God! how happy I felt!
In the oldest part of the little place there lived an old man and his wife, who maintained themselves by painting fans and silk-reels and bonbon boxes and the like toys, such as are made in that neighbourhood.
They had been good to me when I had come thither, a mere lad, with Mathurin. I went to see them, and took her with me. They would scarce believe that the boy Piccinino whom they had known, could be an artist great enough to be playing to all the nobles and gentry in the theatre in the town, which, to them, appeared the grandest building of the sort that any kingdom in the universe could hold.
These old people looked long and with devout eyes of wonder at the young beauty of my wife.
"Thou art a happy soul, Piccinino," said the old
