wish that he had been less handsome. When he thought of what
it was that gave rise to the wish, he felt ill at ease.

Vital, in every way, was different from his tall younger brother. He
was slimly built, scarcely the average height, and not prone to many
words. He was given to day-dreams, too, and often did such
absent-minded things as to cause his father much mental perturbation,
and at times to wish that he had not given him so much schooling, but
had trained him for a farmer instead of a school-teacher. Still he was
immensely proud of his two sons, and as he saw them standing together,
he decided that they looked far superior to the other farmers' sons,
who had been given little or no education.

The wanderer Zotique was only twenty-two years of age, while Vital had
turned thirty.

As the minutes stole by, and the babel of tongues increased, it might
have been noticed that both the brothers stole anxious glances at the
door. Every time it opened they invariably turned to see who the
arrival was. There must have been some weighty reasons for the
frequent disappointed looks which stole across their faces.

At last the guests had nearly all arrived, and farmer Charest, his
good-natured face all aglow, intimated by much hammering on the table
that it was time they sat down to supper. There being no dissenting
voice to this popular proposition, a general move was made to the
benches ranged on both sides of the table. By a strange coincidence,
Zotique and Vital, instead of going to the table with the others,
gravitated toward the door.

"Just thought I would have a look out; it is such a fine night," said
Zotique, as he took a long breath of fresh air.

Vital looked at his robust brother in a queer, constrained manner, and
said that it was indeed a beautiful evening. Now, instead of looking
up at the queen of the night, as one would naturally have expected
after such flattering comments, they both, as though by common
consent, treated her with the most marked disrespect, not once looking
toward her, but bestowing all their attention on a certain little
whitewashed cottage down the road, from a window of which streamed a
light.

"I think we had better go in," said Zotique, presently, in a slightly
disappointed tone.

"Yes, yes, Zotique, what you say is right; there never was a finer
night," answered Vital, dreamily, his eyes still fixed thoughtfully on
the cottage. He was in one of his absent moods, and had not