nd whenever he gave an
opinion he used to turn to me as though he expected me to approve or
disapprove. It seemed to me that I had always known him, and deep down
in my thoughts I used to call him my big brother. He was always asking
Pauline if she was pleased with me. Pauline said that there was no
need to tell him the same thing, over and over again. The only thing
she reproached me with was that I had no system in my work. She used
to say that I was just as likely to begin at the end of it as at the
beginning. I had not forgotten Sister Marie-Aimee, but I was no longer
as sick with longing for her as I used to be. And I was happy on the
farm.

In the month of June the men came, as they came every year, to shear
the sheep. They brought bad news with them. All over the country the
sheep were falling ill as soon as they had been shorn, and numbers of
them were dying. Master Silvain took his precautions, but in spite of
all he could do, a hundred of the sheep fell sick. A doctor said that
by bathing them in the river a good many of them might be saved. So
the farmer got into the water up to his middle, and dipped the sheep in
one by one. He was red hot, and the perspiration rolled down his
forehead and fell in great drops into the river. That evening when he
went to bed he was feverish, and next day he died of inflammation of
the lungs. Pauline could not believe in her misfortune, and Eugene
wandered about the stables and the outhouses with frightened eyes.

Soon after the farmer's death, the landlord of the farm came to see us.
He was a little dry stick of a man, who never kept still for a minute,
and if he did stand still he always seemed to be dancing on one foot.
His face was clean-shaven, and his name was M. Tirande. He came into
the living-room where I was sitting with Pauline. He walked round the
room with his shoulders hunched up. Then he said, pointing to the
baby, "Take him away. I want a talk with the goodwife." I went out
into the yard, and managed to pass the window as often as I could.
Pauline had not moved from her chair. Her hands lay on her knees, and
she was bending her head forward as though she were trying to
understand something very difficult. M. Tirande was talking without
looking at her. He kept walking from the fireplace to the door and
back again, and the noise of his heels on the tiled floor got mixed up
with his broken little voice. He came out again as fas