Thus on the fourth Sunday in January La Fromentière was in charge of Rousille. But Rousille did not find time hang heavy on her hands; she had taken refuge in the threshing-floor at the back of the farm, and was sitting at the foot of a great heap of straw, her face turned towards the Marais, visible through a break in the hedge. She would have been frozen in the north wind that was blowing, had not the straw all about her kept in the warmth like a nest. Leaning her head back against it, she had buried her elbows in the soft depths of some loose straw that had been forked out from the compact mass and not yet taken away. The air was so clear that she could see away to the clock tower of Perrier, to the most remote farmsteads of the Marais, and even to the ruddy streaks, but rarely visible, of the pine-grown downs that bordered the sea more than three leagues distant. She was looking before her, but her mind was travelling beyond her father's meadows, beyond the great Marais, beyond the horizon--for Jean Nesmy had written to her. Rousille had the letter in her pocket--was feeling it with the tips of her fingers. Since morning she had known it by heart, had said it over to herself many a time, that letter of Jean Nesmy; the smile it called forth did not leave her lips, save to light up her eyes. All care was driven away, forgotten. Little Rousille was still loved by someone; the letter testified to it. It said: "Le Château, Parish des Châtelliers, "January 25th. "MY DEAR FRIEND, "We are all in good health, and I hope it is the same with you, though one is never sure when so far away. I have hired myself as labourer in a farm on the back of a hill as you leave the moor of Nouzillac, about which I have told you. In fine weather one can see six clock towers round about, and I think that but for the Mount of Saint Michel one might see the trees of the Marais where you are. Despite that, I see you always before my eyes. On Saturdays I generally go home to La Mère Nesmy, and so does my brother next in age to myself, who also has hired himself to one of the farmers of La Flocellière. We talk of you at mother's, and I often say that I am not as happy as I was before I knew you, or as I should be if they all at home knew you. At any rate, they know your name! My sister Noémi and the little ones, when they come along the road to meet me on Saturday evenings, always call out to make me laugh: 'Any news of Rousille?' But Mother Nesmy will not believe that you care for me, because we are too poor. If only she saw you, she would understand that it is for life. And I spend my time on Sundays telling her all about La Fromentière.