The father was dreamily shaking his head, lost in thought; one of
the sons, elbows on knees, gazed wonderingly at the palms of his
delicate hands, calloused by the rough work of the fields. All three
seemed to be turning over and over in their minds the melancholy
balance-sheet of a failure. Those about them were thinking--
"Lorenzo sold his place for more than it was worth; they have but
little money left and are in hard case; men like these are not built
for living on the land."

Madame Chapdelaine, partly in pity and partly for the honour of
farming, let fall a few encouraging words:--" It is something of a
struggle at the beginning-if you are not used to it; but when your
land is in better order you will see that life becomes easier."

"It is a queer thing," said Conrad Neron, "how every man finds it
equally hard to rest content. Here are three who left their homes
and came this long way to settle and farm, and here am I always
saying to myself that nothing would be so pleasant as to sit quietly
in an office all the day, a pen behind my ear, sheltered from cold
wind and hot sun."

"Everyone to his own notion," declared Lorenzo Surprenant, with
unbiassed mind.

"And your notion is not to stick in Hon-fleur sweating over the
stumps," added Racicot with a loud laugh.

"You are quite right there, and I make no bones about it; that sort
of thing would never have suited me. These men here bought my land-a