After she had repeated it several times he understood by the word "pain" and the intonation with which it was said, that the woman asked, "You are in sorrow?" and answered: "Yes, madame." The old mother took Driot's hand in her soft shrivelled one, all cold and damp with the fog, and stroked it tenderly, and the young Vendéen broke down utterly and wept, thinking of bygone caresses from his old mother, who, too, had worn a white coif and gold pins on grand occasions. * * * * * Mist and fog were sweeping over the Marais of La Vendée, as over the plains of the Scheldt, driven by gusts of wind. At times an expression of anguish crossed the face of Toussaint Lumineau as he followed with his eyes the quivering points of the osiers Rousille held out to him, as though they had been the masts of ships labouring in the ocean. At other times he would look long and lingeringly at his one remaining child, and Rousille knew that she was fair to look upon. A violent squall struck the elm-trees, stripping them clear of leaves, and beating their branches against the roof of La Fromentière. The rainspouts, the tiles, the rafters and walls, the very lizards in the barn groaned and creaked together--and the storm-cry groaned, wildly and madly, over the Marais. Three hundred leagues away the melancholy whistle of a sirene awoke the echoes, the screw of a huge steamer parted the waters of the river and drew away slowly from shore, as though yet half inert and drifting. No sooner did the emigrants, outcasts of the old world, poor and hopelessly miserable, feel themselves afloat, than they were terrified. The thoughts of all on board flew back to their deserted homes. It was in the darkness of night that André Lumineau went forth. * * * * * The farmer threw back a handful of osiers into the vat, saying: "Let us go in. My old hands can work no longer." But he did not stir. The man, alone, ceased chopping the poles of chestnut wood, and left the barn. Rousille, seeing that her father made no movement to rise, stayed where she was. CHAPTER XVI. HER FATHER'S BIDDING. Evening had come, the evening of a February day, which casts its shadow so soon. Through the door of the barn came only a deceptive gleam, like that of a smouldering cinder, blotting out all form. Toussaint Lumineau's arms had sunk on either side of his body; still sitting on the joist, his face uplifted in the dusk, he waited till the man should have crossed the yard. When he had seen the door of the house-place, where Mathurin was watching, open and shut, he lowered his eyes to his daughter. "Rousille," he said, "are you still of the same mind concerning Jean Nesmy?"