said,
"Where I come from there are fields and paths and the sea; nowhere else
in the world is there that," and amid my unhappy memories that
extraordinary saying shines like news of the truth.

We sit down on the bank which borders the lane. We can see the town,
the station and carts on the road; and yonder three villages make
harmony, sometimes more carefully limned by bursts of sunshine. The
horizons entwine us in a murmur. The crossing where we are is the spot
where four roads make a movement of reunion.

But my spirit is no longer what it was. Vaguely I seek, everywhere. I
must see things with all their consequences, and right to their source.
Against all the chains of facts I must have long arguments to bring;
and the world's chaos requires an interpretation equally terrible.

* * * * * *

There is a slight noise--a frail passer-by and a speck which jumps
round her feet. Marie looks and says mechanically, like a devout
woman, making the sign of the cross, "Poor little angel!"

It is little Antoinette and her dog. She gropes for the edge of the
road with a stick, for she has become quite blind. They never looked
after her. They were going to do it, unendingly, but they never did
it. They always said, "Poor little angel," and that was all.

She is so miserably clad that you lower your eyes before her, although
she cannot see. She wanders and seeks, incapable of understanding the
wrong they have done, they have allowed to be done, the wrong which no
one remembers. Alas, to the prating indifference and the indolent
negligence of men there is only this poor little blind witness.

She stops in front of us and puts out her hand awkwardly. She is
begging! No one troubles himself about her now. She is talking to her
dog; he was born in the castle kennels--Marie told me about him. He
was the last of a litter, ill-shaped, with a head too big, and bad
eyes; and the Baroness said, as they were going to drown him, and
because she is always thinking of good things, "Give him to the little
blind girl." The child is training him to guide her; but he is young,
he wants to play when other dogs go by, he hears her with listless ear.
It is difficult for him to begin serious work; and he plucks the string
from her hands. She calls to him; and waits.

Then, during a long time, a good many passers-by appear and vanish. We
do not look at all of them.

But lo, turning the corne