If, when from the horizon we behold our roof,
We cannot say, 'My return gladdens my home'."

LAMARTINE (_Jocelin_).

It was at Sunday's Mass, in the sanctuary itself, that he waited for his
prey. The priest had scarcely reached the steps of the altar, his hands
laden with the holy vessels, when, lifting his eyes to the gallery, he
encountered the look he dreaded.

Suzanne Durand was there, fixing on him her eyes, filled with magnetic
force.

He returned once again full of trouble.

His servant, surprised at his agitation, overwhelmed him with inquisitive
questions; he escaped from her and hastened towards the woods. He cast
himself on the moss at the foot of an old oak and began to reflect. The
dark eyes followed him everywhere.

"Whither am I going?" he said to himself. "Why does the sight of this young
girl agitate my heart in this way?" And he examined his heart and found it
saturated with bitterness, disgust, weariness and regret, and in the midst
of all that, something unknown was springing up. It was like a germ of hope
which all at once had risen out of nothingness, a fleeting light which
flickered in the dense gloom of his life.

He heard the sound of a voice at some distance, a fresh, gay, melodious
voice, to which a deeper note was answering. Spring, youth and love were
mingling their accents together. Between the foliage he saw them slowly