"Your youth, my poor child. He is jealous of all who take the place that should have been his; jealous of François, of André, of you. He is like a lost soul when he hears that anyone but himself is to manage your father's farm. Shall I tell you all?" Her frail hand uplifted, she pointed to the distant Marais, where the poplars, tiny as grains of oats, were standing out against the sky. "Well, he still thinks of Félicité." "Poor brother!" exclaimed Rousille, nodding her head. "If he is still thinking of her, she is only making fun of him." "Innocent," returned the old woman in a whisper, "I know what I know. Beware of Mathurin, he has drunk too deeply of love to forget. Beware of Félicité Gauvrit, because she is furious that being an heiress, no suitors come to her." Rousille was about to reply. Adelaide made her a sign to keep silence; she had heard a footstep in the lane. Hastily drying her eyes, the old lady re-seated herself and picked up her work, like a child surprised in some fault by her mother. A pair of sabots was heard at the foot of the wall, they passed the doorsteps, and went on down the Place. It was not Véronique. Marie-Rose had drawn back; she was looking at her one friend, so old, so worn, so timid, yet whose heart was so young. And she thought no more of what she had been about to reply; she only said simply: "Good-bye, Aunt Michelonne. If I need help I shall know where to come." "Good-bye, dear child. Beware of Mathurin. Beware of the girl out there!" They said no more in words, only their eyes were fixed on each other's, Rousille looking back until she had reached the door; then the latch was lifted, fell back into its socket, and there only remained in the silent chamber a little old woman stooping down over her black work, but who could not see her needle for the mist of tears in her eyes. CHAPTER V. PLOUGHING IN SEPTEMBER. It was Monday, the third day after Rousille had seen the Michelonnes. On the previous day, from morn till eve, storm clouds, rising out of the sea, had discharged their contents on the arid earth, as pockets full of corn are scattered by the sower. Showers of leaves, mostly from the topmost branches, had fallen; others, heavy with moisture, hung pendant. An aroma of damp earth rose up to the calm, milky sky; there was not a breath stirring, the birds were silenced, the land seemed intent upon the last drops of rain formed during the night, that came crashing down at the foot of the trees with a ring as of falling glass. Something in Nature seemed to have died with the last breath of summer, and the whole earth to be conscious of its loss. And in truth, on the hills of Chalons, the most distant area of La Fromentière, the far-off grinding of a plough, and the calls of the man to his oxen, proclaimed that Autumn labour had begun.