Monsieur Ciseaux was coming home to live. Gabriel brought the news when
he came back from market. He had met Henri on the road and heard it from
him. Monsieur was coming home. That was all they knew; as to the day or
the hour, no one could guess. That was the way with monsieur, Henri
said. He was so peculiar one never knew what to expect.

Although the work of opening the great house was begun immediately, and
a thorough cleaning was in progress from garret to cellar, Brossard did
not believe that his master would really be at home before the end of
the week. He made his own plans accordingly, although he hurried Henri
relentlessly with the cleaning.

As soon as Joyce heard the news she made an excuse to slip away, and ran
down to the field to Jules. She found him paler than usual, and there
was a swollen look about his eyes that made her think that maybe he had
been crying.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you glad that your uncle is
coming home?"

Jules gave a cautious glance over his shoulder towards the house, and
then looked up at Joyce. Heretofore, some inward monitor of pride had
closed his lips about himself whenever he had been with her, but, since
the Thanksgiving Day that had made them such firm friends, he had wished
every hour that he could tell her of his troubles. He felt that she was
the only person in the world who took any interest in him. Although she
was only three years older than himself, she had that motherly little
way with her that eldest daughters are apt to acquire when there is a
whole brood of little brothers and sisters constantly claiming