y face downward on the bed.

Now the dripping procession is at hand. They pass along the dooryard
fence. At the little garden gate they halt. Only 'Thanase dismounts.
The commander exchanges a smiling word or two with him, and the youth
passes through the gate, and, while his companions throw each a tired
leg over the pommel and sit watching him, comes up the short, flowery
walk and in at the opening door.

There is nothing to explain, the family have guessed it; he goes in
his father's stead. There is but a moment for farewells.

"Adjieu, Bonaventure."

The prostrate boy does not move. 'Thanase strides up to the bed and
looks at one burning cheek, then turns to his aunt.

"_Li malade?_"--"Is he ill?"

"_Sa l'air a ca_," said the aunt. (_Il a l'air_--he seems so.)

"Bien, n'onc' Sosthene, adjieu." Uncle and nephew shake hands stoutly.
"Adjieu," says the young soldier again to his aunt. She gives her
hand and turns to hide a tear. The youth takes one step toward
Zosephine. She stands dry-eyed, smiling on her father. As the youth
comes her eyes, without turning to him, fill. He puts out his hand.
She lays her own on it. He gazes at her for a moment, with beseeching
eye--"Adjieu." Her eyes meet his one instant--she leaps upon his
neck--his strong arms press her to his bosom--her lifted face lights
up--his kiss is on her lips--it was there just now, and now--'Thanase
is gone, and she has fled to an inner room.

Bonaventure stood in the middle of the floor. Why should the boy look
so strange? Was it anger, or fever, or joy? He started out.

"_A ou-ce-tu va Bonaventure?_"--"Whereabouts are you going?"

"_Va crier les vaches._"--"Going to call the cows."

"At this time of day?" demanded _la vieille_, still in the same
tongue. "Are you crazy?"

"Oh!--no!" the boy replied, looking dazed. "No," he said; "I was going
for some more wood." He went out, passed the woodpile by, got round
behind a corn-crib, and stood in the cold, wet gale watching the
distant company lessening on the view. It was but a short, dim, dark
streak, creeping across the field of vision like some slow insect on a
window-glass. A spot just beyond it was a grove that would presently
shut the creeping line finally from sight. They reached it, passed
beyond, and disappeared; and then Bonaventure took off the small,
soft-brimmed hat that hung about his eyes, and, safe from the sight
and hearing of all his tiny world, lifted his voice, and with face