Some minutes later the old man seemed to have found what he was looking for in this dim light; his eye rested on an enclosure of trees, walls, and roofs, partially visible between the valley and the wood: it was a farm. He nodded his head with an expression of satisfaction, like one who says to himself, "There it is!" and began to trace with his finger the outlines of a route across the hedges and the fields. From time to time he gazed intently at a shapeless and somewhat indistinct object that was moving above the principal roof of the farm, and seemed to ask himself what it could be. It was colorless and dim, in consequence of the time of day. It was not a weather-vane, because it was floating; and there seemed to be no reason why it should be a flag. He felt weary; and grateful to rest on the stone where he was sitting, he yielded to that vague sense of oblivion which the first moment of repose brings to weary men. There is one hour of the day which may be called noiseless,--the peaceful hour of early evening; that hour had come, and he was enjoying it. He gazed, he listened. To what? To perfect tranquillity. Even savage natures have their moments of melancholy. Suddenly this tranquillity was--not exactly disturbed, but sharply defined by the voices of those who were passing below. They were the voices of women and children. It was like a joyous chime of bells heard unexpectedly in the darkness. The group from which the voices came could not be distinguished, on account of the underbrush; but it was evident that the persons were walking along the foot of the dune, in the direction of the plain and the forest. As those clear, fresh voices reached the old man where he sat absorbed in thought, they were so near that he lost not a word. A woman's voice said,-- "Let us hurry, Flécharde. Is this the way?" "No; it is over yonder." And the dialogue went on between the two voices, the one high and shrill, the other low and timid. "What is the name of this farm where we are living now?" "Herbe-en-Pail." "Are we still far from it?" "Fully a quarter of an hour." "Let us make haste and get there in time for the soup." "Yes, I know we are late." "We ought to run; but your mites are tired. We are only two women, and cannot carry three brats. And then, you, Flécharde, you are carrying one as it is,--a perfect lump of lead. You have weaned that little gormandizer, and you still carry it. That is a bad habit; you had better make it walk. Well, the soup will be cold,--worse luck!" "Ah, what good shoes you gave me! They fit as though they were made for me." "It's better than going barefooted." "Do hurry, René-Jean." "He is the one who makes us late; he has had to stop and speak to all the little village girls that we meet He behaves like a man already." "Of course he does; he is going on five years old." "Tell us, René-Jean, why did you speak to that little girl in the village?" A child's voice, that of a boy, replied,--