stooped down and dipped my fingers in the clear waters of the spring.

Another sound made me look at the house again, and I was not in the
least surprised when I saw Henri Deslois standing framed in the
doorway. His head was bare, and his arms were swinging. He stepped
out into the garden and looked far off into the plain. His hair was
parted on the side, and was a little thin at the temples. He remained
perfectly still for a long minute, then he turned to me. There were
only two trees between us. He took a step forward, took hold of the
young tree in front of him with one hand, and the branches in flower
made a bouquet over his head. It grew so light that I thought the bark
of the trees was glittering, and every flower was shining. And in
Henri Deslois's eyes there was so deep a gentleness that I went to him
without any shame. He didn't move when I stopped in front of him. His
face became whiter than his smock, and his lips quivered. He took my
two hands and pressed them hard against his temples. Then he said very
low, "I am like a miser who has found his treasure again." At that
moment the bell of Sainte Montagne Church began to ring. The sound of
the bell ran up the hillsides, and after resting over our heads for a
moment ran on and died away in the distance.

The hours passed, the day grew older, and the cattle disappeared from
the plain. A white mist rose from the little river, then a stone
slipped behind the barrier of poplar trees, and the broom flowers began
to grow darker. Henri Deslois went back towards the farm with me. He
walked in front of me on the narrow path, and when he left me just
before we came to the avenue of chestnut trees I knew that I loved him
even more than Sister Marie-Aimee.

The house on the hill became our house. Every Sunday I found Henri
Deslois waiting there, and as I used to do when Jean le Rouge lived
there, I took my blessed bread to the house on the hill after mass and
we used to laugh as we divided it.

We both had the same kind of feeling of liberty which made us run races
round the garden and wet our shoes in the brooklets from the spring.
Henri Deslois used to say, "On Sundays I, too, am seventeen years old."
Sometimes we would go for long walks in the woods which skirted the
hill. Henri Deslois was never tired of hearing me talk about my
childhood, and Sister Marie-Aimee. Sometimes we talked about Eugene,
whom he knew. He used to say that he was one of t