ent off in the cart
with all the birds of the poultry-yard. In a few days nothing was left
at the farm but the two white oxen, which Eugene would trust to nobody
but himself. He fastened them to the cart which was to take Pauline
and her child. The little fellow was fast asleep in a basket full of
straw, and Eugene put him into the cart without waking him up. Pauline
covered him with her shawl, made the sign of the cross towards the
house, took up the reins, and the cart went slowly off under the
chestnut trees.

I wanted to go with them as far as the high-road, and I followed the
cart, walking behind the oxen, between Eugene and Martine. None of us
spoke. Every now and then Eugene gave the oxen a friendly pat. We
were quite a long way on the road when Pauline saw that the sun was
setting. She stopped the horse, and, when I had climbed on to the step
to kiss her good-bye, she said sadly, "God be with you, my girl.
Behave well." Then her voice filled with tears, and she added, "If my
poor husband were living he would never have given you up." Martine
kissed me, and smiled. "We may see one another again," she said.
Eugene took his hat off. He held my hand in his for a long time, and
said slowly, "Good-bye, dear little friend. I shall always remember
you."

I walked a little way back, and turned round to see them again, and,
although it was getting dark, I saw that Eugene and Martine were
walking hand in hand.

PART III

The new farmers came next day. The farm hands and the serving women
had come early in the morning, and when the masters arrived in the
evening I knew that they were called Monsieur and Madame Alphonse. M.
Tirande remained at Villevieille for two days, and went off after
reminding me that I was in his daughter-in-law's service now, and that
I should have to do no more outside work on the farm.

The very first week she was there Madame Alphonse had had Eugene's room
turned into a linen-room, and she had set me to work at a big table on
which were a number of pieces of linen which I was to make into sheets
and other things. She came and sat down next to me, and worked at
making lace. She would remain for whole days at a time without saying
a word. Sometimes she talked to me about the linen presses which her
mother had, full of all kinds of linen.

Her voice had no ring to it, and she scarcely moved her lips when she
spoke. M. Tirande seemed very fond of his daughter-in