for one just before the conquest in 1759, but the war had destroyed the
ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. Paradis always knew the
time of the day by the way the light fell on the wind-mill. He had owned
this farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and he had loved it as he
loved Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved Fabian's memory. In spite
of all, they were cheerful memories, both of brother and house.

At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two hundred acres of land,
some cash, horses and cattle, and plenty of credit in the parish, or in
the county, for that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but
Fabian had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely
ankles. Yet no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at
first. An old servant kept house for them and cared for them in her
honest way, both physically and morally. She lectured them when at first
there was little to lecture about. It is no wonder that when there came
a vast deal to reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, overwhelmed by the
weight of it.

Henri got a shock the day before their father died when he saw Fabian
lift the brandy used to mix with the milk of the dying man, and pouring
out the third of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did so,
as though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue to his future and to
Fabian's. After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank
in the taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish;
for, wild as he was, he had a gay temper, a humorous mind, a strong arm,
and was the universal lover. The Cure, who did not, of course, know one-
fourth of his wildness, had a warm spot for him in his heart. But there
was a vicious strain in him somewhere, and it came out one day in a
perilous fashion.