owly ripen till they burst, on the
occasion of a marriage perhaps, or of some good fortune happening to
one of them, kept them on the alert in a sort of brotherly and
non-aggressive animosity. They were fond of each other, it is true, but
they watched each other. Pierre, five years old when Jean was born,
had looked with the eyes of a little petted animal at that other little
animal which had suddenly come to lie in his father's and mother's arms
and to be loved and fondled by them. Jean, from his birth, had always
been a pattern of sweetness, gentleness, and good temper, and Pierre had
by degrees begun to chafe at ever-lastingly hearing the praises of this
great lad, whose sweetness in his eyes was indolence, whose gentleness
was stupidity, and whose kindliness was blindness. His parents, whose
dream for their sons was some respectable and undistinguished calling,
blamed him for so often changing his mind, for his fits of enthusiasm,
his abortive beginnings, and all his ineffectual impulses towards
generous ideas and the liberal professions.

Since he had grown to manhood they no longer said in so many words:
"Look at Jean and follow his example," but every time he heard them say
"Jean did this--Jean does that," he understood their meaning and the
hint the words conveyed.

Their mother, an orderly person, a thrifty and rather sentimental woman
of the middle class, with the soul of a soft-hearted book-keeper, was
constantly quenching the little rivalries between her two big sons
to which the petty events of their life constantly gave rise. Another
little circumstance, too, just now disturbed her peace of mind, and
she was in fear of some complications; for in the course of the winter,
while her boys were finishing their studies, each in his own line, she
had made the acquaintance of a neighbour, Mme. Rosemilly, the widow of a
captain of a merchantman who had died at sea two years before. The young
widow--quite young, only three-and-twenty--a woman of strong intellect
who knew life by instinct as the free animals do, as though she
had seen, gone through, understood, and weighted every conceivable
contingency, and judged them with a wholesome, strict, and benevolent
mind, had fallen into the habit of calling to work or chat for an hour
in the evening with these friendly neighbours, who would give her a cup
of tea.

Father Roland, always goaded on by his seafaring craze, would question
their new friend about the departe