ften thought of those meetings along the roadside. She
had acted horridly after all her promises.

By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And one day
he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived. He
looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, that she
lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cocks crowed on
the dung hill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farm hands had gone
to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near the gate and looked
into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel, three calves were
walking slowly, one behind the other, towards the pond. A big turkey was
strutting before the door, parading before the turkey hens like a singer
at the opera.

Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with a
desire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for help coming
from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands grasping the wooden
bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, a prolonged,
heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. It was she who
was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grass patch, pushed
open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her body drawn up, her
face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of childbirth.

He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:

"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"

She replied in gasps:

"Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!"

He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began to cry
out again:

"Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!"

She writhed frightfully.

Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, to quiet
her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laid her on
her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her clothes,
her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists to keep from
crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for cows, ewes, and
mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in his hands a large
infant who was moaning.

He wiped it off and wrapped it up in a towel that was drying in front of
the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that was
on the table. Then he went back to the mother.

He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed the
bedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:

"Thank you, Benoist, you have a no