overlooking the water.

It was, as he had said, a small and humble dwelling, but it was rather
less miserable than the abodes of most of the peasants of the district.

It was only one story high, but it was divided into three rooms, and the
roof was covered with thatch.

In front was a tiny garden, in which a few fruit-trees, some withered
cabbages, and a vine which covered the cottage to the roof, managed to
find subsistence.

This garden was a mere nothing, but even this slight conquest over
the sterility of the soil had cost Lacheneur's deceased aunt almost
unlimited courage and patience.

For more than twenty years the poor woman had never, for a single day,
failed to throw upon her garden three or four basketfuls of richer soil,
which she was obliged to bring more than half a league.

It had been more than a year since she died; but the little pathway
which her patient feet had worn in the performance of this daily task
was still distinctly visible.

This was the path which M. d'Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took
the following day, in the hope of wresting from Marie-Anne's father the
secret of his inexplicable conduct.

He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the
overpowering heat as he climbed the rough hill-side in the full glare of