Father named over all the inhabited places, and then the hills and valleys. His way was not in the least like grandfather’s. Where grandfather and I would have looked for such traces of nature as we could find still surviving in its pristine simplicity between the havoc wrought by plough and axe, the changes brought about by agricultural toil, he, on the contrary, was pointing out the constant intervention of man, the results of the toil of generations. Instead of the free earth, it was the earth disciplined, constrained to serve, obey, produce,--the earth that in the past had been watered by blood, traversed by armed troops, protected by force against the foreigner, as was meet for a frontier province of France, blessed by prayer. For a very saint, a popular saint who had brought miracles into every-day life, our Saint François de Sales had knelt upon this earth and offered it to God. It was feeding the living; it was giving repose to the dead. Glorious, fruitful, sacred earth, the eulogy of its threefold greatness fell from his lips with such lucidity that in spite of myself I was moved with him. “And the house,” he concluded, “don’t you see the house?” I looked for it without interest, realising that I had lost the habit of looking in that direction. It was, however, easy enough to discover, on the edge of the town, standing alone, and at its back the lovely rural domain by which it joined the country. Like the spirals of a soaring bird, father’s words had covered the entire country, and now, drawing in its circles, had suddenly dropped down upon our roof. He went on to describe the house in detail, as one describes the features of a countenance. It had not all been built at one time. At first there was only the ground floor. “You have seen the date on the tablet in the kitchen chimney--1610.” “Or 1670,” I thought to myself, almost repeating, like grandfather, whose reflection recurred to my mind: “It’s a matter of no importance.” But I dared not risk this comment openly. A century later our ancestors, having improved their fortunes, had added a story and built the tower. Limited in one direction by the town, the property had been extended toward the plain, then covered by woods. Trees had been cut down to make room for the garden, for fields and meadows. It had been a constant and oft repeated struggle against difficulties, against mischance and against other foes. Did father, then, believe in Aunt Deen’s _they_? I had almost smiled, but he did not give me time. Each generation had brought its effort to the common task, and one or another--that of the garde-français, that of the grenadier,--its contribution of honour; the chain had not been broken. I felt a strong desire to object--“How about grandfather?” What would he have said to that?