"He never passed the signpost again, nor caught another glimpse of Mademoiselle Henriette's cap. Three days later the Rector broke into the cottage and discovered her seated, dead and stiff, her hands stained with digging her sister's grave.
"And the cottage had no new tenant. Only M. Benest continued to eye it wistfully, as he cast his flies and pondered on his offence, which she had died without forgiving.
"But one July, two years after her death, a patch of gold appeared on the marsh below the hedge—a patch of the monkey-flower. Some seeds had been blown thither, or carried down by the stream.
"Next July the patch had doubled its length.
"'The flowers are travelling towards me,' said M. Benest.
"And year by year the stream brought them nearer. That was a terrible July for him when they came within two feet of the signpost; but he would not stretch a hand beyond it.
"'She coquets with her forgiveness, the poor Mademoiselle Henriette.
But I can wait: 'faut pas deshonorer la patrie a la fin!'
"Before the next July he had made sure of one plant at least on his side of the signpost; and fished beside it day after day, fearful lest some animal should browse upon it. But when the happy morning came for it to open, and M. Benest knelt beside his prize, he drew back a hand.
"'Is it quite open?' he asked. 'Better wait, since all is safe, for the sun to warm it a little longer.'
"And he waited, until a trout, to remind him, perhaps, took a fly with a splash beneath his nose. Then, with a start, M. Benest's fingers closed and snapped off the yellow blossom.