The second week of April was extremely mild throughout the Marais of La Vendée; Spring was at hand. The first to announce its coming were the blackthorns and willows; they were not yet in blossom but in bud. And those buds which precede the blossoms have a perfume of their own--the whole country side was permeated with it. In the low-lying meadows, from which the water had retired, flowering moss was sending up its slender heads amid the fresh blades of grass. The plover was making its nest. Horses, turned out to grass, were enjoying their gallops on sunny banks, once more dry and firm. Pools were blue as the clouds were white, because Spring was coming. On an afternoon of that happy week when all life was young again, Toussaint Lumineau, standing at his gate, was awaiting the return of the eldest Michelonne, whom, a week ago, he had sent on a mission to the town of Châtelliers. For she had written him that her quest had been successful, and that she was bringing back from the Bocage the humble labourer who was to be Rousille's husband, the mainstay and eventually the master of La Fromentière. That morning Véronique had come to fetch Rousille to go and meet the travellers, and now the time was approaching when the tilted cart drawn by La Rousse should have rounded the corner and appeared at the foot of the hill between the two corn-fields swaying in the breeze. The farmer stood waiting on his own domain, leaning on the gate which, alas! had opened to let forth, without return, all the sons of La Fromentière, and which he, himself, would now open to let in the new-comers. Truly his heart was sad. Life had treated him hardly; the future was not reassuring. Would not the land soon be sold and left to chance? At the very moment that he was about to welcome those who should succeed him, could Toussaint Lumineau chase away the thought that the long traditions of bygone generations were coming to an end, and that, inseparable for centuries, his family name and that of the farm would no longer be one and the same? However, he was too old, and came of too good a stock to surrender hope. The blood that coursed in his veins contained, like wheat, something of eternal youth. It might be deemed dead, it sprang to life again. A dull, rapid thud, like the sound of men threshing, smote on the balmy air. Toussaint Lumineau recognised his mare's pace. She was coming at a gallop, as when returning from fairs, or fêtes, or weddings. He raised his head. Once more he felt within him the courage to live on, and turning towards the road where the old trees were putting on their fresh glad verdure, knowing that beyond them joy was hastening to him, he took off his hat, and with outstretched arms said: "Come, my Rousille, with your Jean Nesmy." THE END. _Jarrold and Sons, The Empire Press, Norwich and London._ =Selections from Jarrold & Sons' List of Fiction= =Maurus Jókai's Famous Novels.=