Two boyish letters, written from school, and containing but few words. They were tied up carefully, and had evidently been much read. Was this the one human love that could have reached the hard cold man in his prison-house? There were more letters in another packet of slight importance, but all preserved; the last was dated two years and a half ago, during an apparently temporary absence from Rouen, and alluding to the purchase of Ardron. "And there are no more?" inquired the doctor. "No more," answered M. Roulleau, after a momentary pause. "That is to say, I should prefer your assuring yourself on the matter. Here are the papers in order." M. Deshoulieres applied himself to the task. The two men sat there reading, arranging, making notes, now and then saying a few words, until the afternoon was far advanced. "There is nothing," exclaimed the doctor, pushing back his chair impatiently. "Was there ever such a predicament!" "There is nothing, as you say," assented the notary, slowly. "After all, the property is in good hands." "Do not talk about it," M. Deshoulieres said testily. "One would suppose you thought it a fine thing. There is the village still, and the cure. We may hope for something from him." In the village--which lay about a league behind the chateau, and to which the doctor and the little notary walked, under a sweet, grave, evening sky, through trees in which the nightingales were singing with all their might--in the village there were enough surmises offered to them to account for the disappearance of half a hundred nephews; but no facts. Monsieur Fabien desired to see life--Monsieur Fabien could not have his own will--he was, doubtless, an emigrant in America--in the Mauritius--he was with the army in Algeria--he was amassing a fortune among the English--he was a missionary in China. M. Deshoulieres was too impatient to sift the trifles which were poured into his ear; M. Roulleau professed himself at his wit's end. It made quite a little sensation at Ardron to know that these strangers had brought news of Monsieur Moreau's death, and were seeking tidings of Monsieur Saint-Martin. The rumour travelled up to the presbytere, and Monsieur le Cure was prepared when old Jeanneton came hobbling in, to say that two gentlemen were asking to speak with him. He had an instinctive aversion to strangers, and the welcome he accorded was not particularly gracious. As they sat in the little humbly furnished room, with the cure listening to his story with a grim, unsympathising face, M. Deshoulieres thought he had never before entirely realised the disagreeables of his position. Whenever a question was put to him, the cure slightly raised his shoulders or shook his head. There was an air of doubt about the manner in which he received every detail, which irritated the doctor almost beyond bearing. He had never seen M. Fabien. It was possible that he had been at Ardron. The extraordinary