"And your brother, is he content?" interrupted the farmer.
"Half and half. The pay is so poor, you see. Two francs at La Fromentière go farther than three here."
The father hesitated a little. Then asked, lowering his voice:
"Tell me, perhaps he regrets what he has done? I have no son with me now, Lionore; I am wretched. Do you think that François would come back to his home?"
He forgave all, forgot all; he craved help from the children who had wronged him.
Eléonore's face changed abruptly. Drying her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, she shook her pointed chignon, and replied drily:
"I do not think so, father. I would rather tell you so out straight. You will be seeing my brother—will talk it over with him, but I do not think——" And as if deeply hurt she turned abruptly away to the store.
The half-hour had struck, the door of the café opened noisily, a man came in. Without looking up, or moving from her place, the girl said:
"Here he is."
Despite the railway uniform and cap he was wearing, the farmer, in the semi-darkness of the shop, had already recognised his son by the downcast head, slouching gait, and habit of holding his arms out from his body. Soon François stood before him in the doorway of the kitchen, and a glance revealed the same heavy features as of old—russet-red complexion, drooping moustache, and look of stolid indifference.