"It is an executioner's business to behead people, aunt, but that makes his trade none the less horrible," exclaimed Onésime.
"Ah, I felt sure M. Onésime would feel as I do about it," said the girl, quickly.
"He? oh, yes, I don't doubt it! He is a regular sissy. When did you ever hear of his doing any fighting?"
"I admit that I am no hero, aunt," replied Onésime, smiling, "I don't doubt in the least that if I were a prisoner, and obliged to kill somebody to regain my liberty, I should remain a prisoner."
"Yours is the truest, noblest kind of courage, after all," responded the young girl, warmly, for her dislike of warriors in general was perhaps due in a great measure to the fact that Onésime, both by reason of his temperament and his infirmity, was never likely to be a man of that kind.
"Onésime courageous!" retorted the housekeeper. "You must be jesting!" Then, turning to her nephew, she cried: "Don't you see that mademoiselle is making fun of you, my poor boy? Oh, well, put my knitting on the table for me, my brave hero, and hand me my work-box without dropping it if you can."
The young man was consequently obliged to hold out both his hands in turn, one to present the work-box, the other to take the knitting, and as the light from the lamp fell full on the table, the pitiless aunt instantly discovered the terrible burn he had received.
"Good Heavens! what is the matter with your hand?" she exclaimed.
"Nothing of any consequence, aunt," he replied, hastily drawing back his hand, while the young girl, whose attention had been attracted by the housekeeper's exclamation, turned toward him anxiously.
But the aunt sprang up, and, seizing her nephew's hand in spite of his efforts to hide it, examined it carefully.