at me a little, and said he could not
understand how I could be afraid of a sick sheep.

I was able to do him a good turn afterwards, and I was very glad. When
he let the bull out one morning, he had slipped and fallen in front of
him. The bull had sniffed and smelt at him. He was a young bull,
which had been brought up on the farm, and was a little bit wild. The
cowherd was afraid of him, and felt quite certain that he would
remember that he had seen him on the ground in front of him. I should
have liked to make him understand that there was nothing to be afraid
of, but I didn't know what to say to prevent his being frightened. I
was quite surprised at noticing all of a sudden how old he was. His
hat had dropped on to the ground, and I noticed for the first time that
his hair was quite grey. I thought about him all day long, and next
day, while the cows were going out one by one, I went into the stable.
The cowherd was looking at the bull, who was pulling at the chain. I
went up to him, patted him, and let him loose. The cowherd stood on
one side, and the bull rushed out as if he were mad. The herd looked
at him in surprise, and limped after him. I was not nearly so
frightened of the bull as I had been of the sheep with the swollen
face, and I used to go into the stable every day, slipping in quietly
so as not to be seen. But Eugene had seen me. He took me aside one
morning, and, looking right into my eyes with his little eyes, he said,
"Why did you let the bull loose?" I was afraid the cow-herd would be
scolded if I told the truth, and tried to find something to say to him.
I began to say that I didn't let him loose. Then Eugene gave a little
chuckle, and said, "You don't mean to tell me that you tell lies, do
you?" I told him everything, and they sold the bull next Saturday.

I had often noticed how kind Eugene was to everybody. Whenever the
farmer had any difficulties with his men he always used to call his
brother, who would settle everything with a few words. Eugene did the
same work on the farm as Master Silvain did, but he always refused to
go to market. He said that he would not know how to sell even a
cheese. He walked slowly, rocking himself a little as he walked, as
though he were trying to keep time with his oxen. He went to Sainte
Montagne nearly every Sunday. When the weather was bad he would remain
in the living-room at the farm house and read. I used to hope that he
would