forward some what, and seemed smaller than the other. Although
he held himself as erect as possible, you still could have laid your
hand in the hollow of his left breast, and it would have done no more
than give it a natural fulness. Perhaps it was a sort of vanity, perhaps
a kind of courage, which made him resolutely straighten himself, in
spite of the deadly weight dragging his shoulder down. He might be
melancholy in secret, but in public he was gay and hopeful, and talked
of everything except himself. On that interesting topic he would permit
no discussion. Yet there often came jugs and jars from friendly people,
who never spoke to him of his disease--they were polite and sensitive,
these humble folk--but sent him their home-made medicines, with
assurances scrawled on paper that "it would cure Mr. Ferrol's cold, oh,
absolutely."

Before the Lavilettes he smiled, and received the gifts in a debonair
way, sometimes making whimsical remarks. At the same time the jugs
and jars of cordial (whose contents varied from whiskey, molasses and
boneset, to rum, licorice, gentian and sarsaparilla roots) he carried to
his room; and he religiously tried them all by turn. Each seemed to
do him good for a few days, then to fail of effect; and he straightway
tried another, with renewed hope on every occasion, and subsequent
disappointment. He also secretly consulted the Regimental Surgeon, who
was too kindhearted to tell him the truth; and he tried his hand at
various remedies of his own, which did no more than to loosen the cough
which was breaking down his strength.

As now, he often walked down the street swinging his cane, not as though
he needed it for walking, but merely for occupation and companionship.
He did not delude the villagers by these sorrowful deceptions, but they
made believe he did. There were a few people who did not like him; but
they were of that cantankerous minority who put thorns in the bed of the
elect.

To-day, occupied with his thoughts, he walked down the main road, then
presently diverged on a side road which led past Magon Farcinelle's
house to an old disused mill, owned by Magon's father. He paused when
he came opposite Magon's house, and glanced up at the open door. He was
tired, and the coolness of the place looked inviting. He passed through
the gate, and went lightly up the path. He could see straight through
the house into the harvest-fields at the back. Presently a figure
crossed the lane of l