Toussaint Lumineau was quietly talking with Mathurin. Sitting side by side at the table, they watched their steaming plates of soup cool as they discussed the new farm-servant whom it was necessary to engage shortly. "I will hire him at Chalons fair," said the father. "That will be too late." "We must do our best till then, my boy. I will look out for a strong fellow, a lad from these parts." "Yes, no _Boquin_, above all things! We know what they are!" Toussaint Lumineau shook his head as he replied gently: "Do not wrong the lad, Mathurin. I sent Jean Nesmy away, and for a reason. But as regards work, I have nothing but good to say of him; he worked well, and he loved farming, whilst others...." Little Rousille was listening with eyes lowered, standing like a statue by the window. François entered. "Whilst others," continued the farmer, slightly raising his voice, "do not show as much energy as they might. Eh, my François?" The fair, ruddy-cheeked youth shrugged his shoulders as he took his seat. "The work is too hard," he said. "Since I came back I have felt that I cannot accustom myself to that kind of thing." "Oh, you half of a man," cried Mathurin. "Are you not ashamed of yourself? If I could but walk, our father would have no need to hire anyone. Look at these arms," and he held them out, the muscles showing under his coat sleeves like knots of an oak-tree imprisoned within the bark, while his face was suffused with crimson, the veins of his forehead swelled, and his eyes were bloodshot. "My poor boy!" said his father, touching his hand to calm him. "My poor boy, I well know your misfortune has cost La Fromentière dear." Then after a short silence, he added: "Still we will get through some good work, children, with François and Driot, who will soon be home, and the man I am about to hire. I have a mind to start to-day on the field of La Cailleterie, that has lain fallow there two years. The rain we have had must have softened the ground, the plough will bite." Eléonore, who had just then pushed open the inner door, stopped tremblingly, seeing François in the act of moving his lips as if to speak and tell their secret. But no word escaped the young man's lips during the remainder of the meal. Towards the end, as they were rising from table, Mathurin, looking at the sky through the smoke-begrimed windows, said: "Father, will you take me up there in the cart?" "Of course I will. Go fetch the cart, Eléonore, and you, François, yoke the oxen." The farmer was well-nigh gay; the young people thought his mind was dwelling upon Driot, whose name was now so constantly upon his lips. But it was nothing but the first tillage of the season that made him so content.