which their laborious industry could provide to push him forward in his
business; and, happily, all these exertions had not proved useless: the
seed had brought forth fruit, and the days of harvest were close by.

While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michael had
come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were wanted.

During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was also
scrutinizing the joiner.

The excesses of his youth and the labor of his manhood have deeply marked
his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stoop, his legs are
shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in his whole
being. His very features have an expression of sorrow and despondency.
He answers my questions by monosyllables, and like a man who wishes to
avoid conversation. Whence comes this dejection, when one would think he
had all he could wish for? I should like to know!


Ten o'clock.--Michael is just gone downstairs to look for a tool he has
forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the secret of
his and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause of it!

Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is idle
or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them any more.
The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made glad their
lives once more; his mother counted the days, his father prepared
everything to receive their dear associate in their toils; and at the
moment when they were thus about to be repaid for all their sacrifices,
Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just engaged himself to a