It was still early in the morning, for Jean had been away from home scarcely an hour--an hour that seemed an immeasurable time, during which he had seen his past life unroll before him like a writing in a foreign language, dark and meaningless. During that time he had seen his ideals, his plans, his dream-castles melt away into nothing, and all his future become a blank. The sun was still shining, the clouds still floating in the sky, the grass still green, the birds still singing, the air still fragrant with the odours of pine and balsam, of crushed strawberries and new-mown hay--but not for him. The world to him seemed colourless, odourless, silent as the tomb, because the light and joy had gone out of his life when a young girl with blue eyes and golden hair had passed down the road clad all in white as a bride adorned for her husband. She had vanished at the turn of the road, and immediately the world was changed. The glory of the world had departed; the beauty was gone; love had flown away; and life was no longer worth while. Even the great house, the work of his hands, his castle and seat of pride, was like a broken toy, a thing to be thrown aside. It had ceased to interest him, but still the force of habit led him thither. He pressed the latch, and entered the great kitchen where his good mother was preparing breakfast. "Good morning, Jean," she said, looking up with a smile, which immediately changed to a look of alarm, "Oh, Jean, what is it? What is the matter? Where have you been? What is it, Jean, my son?" "It is nothing, my mother," he said, with a fugitive smile. "Nothing at all. That is, I am a little tired, perhaps." "Tired? A great man like you, and at this time of the day! Six o’clock on a fine summer morning--and tired! Very strange, that. No, Jean, you are putting me off. What is it, then? Tell me, my son." "It is Bonhomme Laroche, my mother." "That old miser. What does he want?" "His money." "His money? We have not had it six months, and the loan was for three years." "It is the interest that he wants, my mother, the half-yearly interest." "Well, that is not much, a matter of sixty dollars or so. We will pay him." "Yes, we will pay him, of course, but we shall not have much left." "Nonsense, Jean! We shall have still a nice little deposit in the bank; the tourists owe us a good sum; and to-morrow we shall send butter and eggs to the market--five dollars worth at the very least. No, there is no cause for worry. The business is going well. It will come out all right, with the help of the good God. Have courage, my son. The time of sowing will soon be over, and you will see the golden harvest, the fruit of all your planning, your work. If that is all--no!" "He wishes to buy a husband for his daughter."