peak. I don't want another avowal. She owned it to me
herself."

"She owned that to you, she owned that to you!"

And I suddenly threw my arms round my uncle Lazare's neck.

"Oh! how nice that is!" I added. "I had never spoken to her, truly. She
told you that at the confessional, didn't she? I would never have dared
ask her if she loved me, and I would never have known anything. Oh! how I
thank you!"

My uncle Lazare was quite red. He felt that he had just committed a
blunder. He had imagined that this was not my first meeting with the young
girl, and here he gave me a certainty, when as yet I only dared dream of a
hope. He held his tongue now; it was I who spoke with volubility.

"I understand all," I continued. "You are right, I must work to win Babet.
But you will see how courageous I shall be. Ah! how good you are, my uncle
Lazare, and how well you speak! I understand what the spring says: I,
also, will have a powerful summer and an autumn of abundance. One is well
placed here, one sees all the valley; I am young like it, I feel youth
within me demanding to accomplish its task--"

My uncle calmed me.

"Very good, Jean," he said to me. "I had long hoped to make a priest of
you, and I imparted to you my knowledge with that sole aim. But what I saw
this morning at the waterside compels me to definitely give up my fondest
hope. It is Heaven that disposes of us. You will love the Almighty in
another way. You cannot now remain in this village, and I only wish you to
return when ripened by age and work. I have chosen the trade of printer
for you; your education will serve you. One of my friends, who is a
printer at Grenoble, is expecting you next Monday."

I felt anxious.

"And I shall come back and marry Babet?" I inquired.

My uncle smiled imperceptibly; and, without answering in a direct manner,
said:

"The remainder is the will of Heaven."

"You are heaven, and I have faith in your kindness. Oh! uncle, see that
Babet does not forget me. I will work for her."

Then my uncle Lazare again pointed out to me the valley which the warm
golden light was overspreading more and more.

"There is hope," he said to me. "Do not be as old as I am, Jean. Forget my
sermon, be as ignorant as this land. It does not trouble about the autumn;
it is all engrossed with the joy of its smile; it labours, courageously
and without a care. It hopes."

And we returned to the parsonage, strolling along slowly in the grass,
which