inded them of their home, and
of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.

As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at
the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine merchant's. A piece of
bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the
luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But
as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and they
would begin to talk.

Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the
woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest
at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and
Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:

"It's just like home, just like Plounivon."

"Yes, it's just like home."

And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of home.
They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.

Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private
estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.

As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would
cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking
of the folks at home.

Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.

From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some boyish
prank which would give them food for plenty of thought. And the home
country, so dear and so distant, would little by little gain possession
of their minds, sending them back through space, to the well-known forms
and noises, to the familiar scenery, with the fragrance of its green
fields and sea air. They no longer noticed the smells of the city. And in
their dreams they saw their friends leaving, perhaps forever, for the
dangerous fishing grounds.

They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented and
sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a
captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom.

And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little
nook, where every Sunday they took their meal. They found the two bricks,
which they had hidden in a hedge, and they made a little fire of dry
branches and roasted their sausages on the ends of their knives.

When their last crumb of bread had been eaten and the last drop of wine
had been drunk, they stretched themselves out on the grass side by side,
without speaking, their half-closed eyes