ight and dry and straw-coloured; and it
flew out crackling with electricity, to meet his cap as he put it on.
He lived alone in a little but near his lime-kiln by the river, with no
near neighbours, and few companions save his four dogs; and these he fed
sometimes at expense of his own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry
in his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well placed. Behind
the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and beyond these the verdant hills,
all converging to Dalgrothe Mountain. In front of it was the river, with
its banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, always troubled
and sportive. On the farther side of the river lay peaceful areas of
meadow and corn land, and low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one
larger than the rest, having a wind-mill and a flag-staff. This building
was almost large enough for a manor, and indeed it was said that it had
been built for one just before the conquest in 1759, but the war had
destroyed the ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. Paradis
always knew the time of the day by the way the light fell on the
wind-mill. He had owned this farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and
he had loved it as he loved Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved
Fabian's memory. In spite of all, they were cheerful memories, both of
brother and house.

At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two hundred acres of land,
some cash, horses and cattle, and plenty of credit in the parish, or
in the county, for that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but
Fabian had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely
ankles. Yet no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at
first. An old servant kept house for them and cared for them in her
honest way, both physically and morally. She lectured them when at first
there was little to lecture about. It is no wonder that when there came
a vast deal to reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, overwhelmed by
the weight of it.

Henri got a shock the day before their father died when he saw Fabian
lift the brandy used to mix with the milk of the dying man, and pouring
out the third of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did
so, as though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue to his future and
to Fabian's. After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He
drank in the taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the
parish; for, wild as he was, he had a gay temper, a humor