He, listening, took her empty words as words of pity. "Lionore," he said, after a while, as she stooping was cutting the bread for the soup, "Lionore, you have given up the coif of La Vendée?" "Yes, they ironed them so badly here at La Roche, and it cost so much. Besides, no one wears caps here." "Humph! Well, since you have given up dressing as did your mother and grandmother, and all the women of the family I have ever known, are you any the happier? Are you content in your new circumstances?" She went on cutting the bread into thin slices, and answered: "It is not the same kind of work, but I cannot say but that I have as much to do as I had at home. There are the rooms to keep in order, marketing to do, my stones to wash every other day when it rains, as to-day, or snows; cooking at all times of the day, and that for people who are not always very civil, I assure you. Sometimes there are complaints that there are so few customers, for there was too high a price paid for the café--much too high. And then when men passing come in for a drink, I am often afraid of them. Indeed, if I had not neighbours----" "And your brother, is he content?" interrupted the farmer. "Half and half. The pay is so poor, you see. Two francs at La Fromentière go farther than three here." The father hesitated a little. Then asked, lowering his voice: "Tell me, perhaps he regrets what he has done? I have no son with me now, Lionore; I am wretched. Do you think that François would come back to his home?" He forgave all, forgot all; he craved help from the children who had wronged him. Eléonore's face changed abruptly. Drying her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, she shook her pointed chignon, and replied drily: "I do not think so, father. I would rather tell you so out straight. You will be seeing my brother--will talk it over with him, but I do not think----" And as if deeply hurt she turned abruptly away to the store. The half-hour had struck, the door of the café opened noisily, a man came in. Without looking up, or moving from her place, the girl said: "Here he is." Despite the railway uniform and cap he was wearing, the farmer, in the semi-darkness of the shop, had already recognised his son by the downcast head, slouching gait, and habit of holding his arms out from his body. Soon François stood before him in the doorway of the kitchen, and a glance revealed the same heavy features as of old--russet-red complexion, drooping moustache, and look of stolid indifference. On seeing his father a shade of emotion passed over his face. "Good day, father," said he, holding out his hand. "So things are not going well by what I see?" The farmer made a sign of acquiescence. "You are in trouble. Yes, I understand. So should I be if I were you. André ought not to have done it; he was the last, he ought to have stayed."