all day long m’sieur michel stayed about his hut engaged in some familiar employment that he hoped might efface the unaccountable impressions of the morning. but his restlessness was unbounded. a longing had sprung up within him as sharp as pain and not to be appeased. at once, on this bright, warm easter morning the voices that till now had filled his solitude became meaningless. he stayed mute and uncomprehending before them. their significance had vanished before the driving want 120for human sympathy and companionship that had reawakened in his soul.

when night came on he walked through the woods down the slant of the hill again.

“it mus’ be all fill’ up with weeds,” muttered m’sieur michel to himself as he went. “ah, bon dieu! with trees, michel, with trees—in twenty-five years, man.”

he had not taken the road to the village, but was pursuing a different one in which his feet had not walked for many days. it led him along the river bank for a distance. the narrow stream, stirred by the restless breeze, gleamed in the moonlight that was flooding the land.

as he went on and on, the scent of the new-plowed earth that had been from the first keenly perceptible, began to intoxicate him. he wanted to kneel and bury his face in it. he wanted to dig into it; turn it over. he wanted to scatter the seed again as he had done long ago, and watch the new, green life spring up as if at his bidding.

when he turned away from the river and had walked a piece down the lane that divided joe duplan’s plantation from that bit of land 121that had once been his, he wiped his eyes to drive away the mist that was making him see things as they surely could not be.

he had wanted to plant a hedge that time before he went away, but he had not done so. yet there was the hedge before him, just as he had meant it to be, and filling the night with fragrance. a broad, low gate divided its length, and over this he leaned and looked before him in amazement. there were no weeds as he had fancied; no trees except the scattered live oaks that he remembered.

could that row of hardy fig trees, old, squat and gnarled, be the twigs that he himself had set one day into the ground? one raw december day when there was a fine, cold mist falling. the chill of it breathed again upon him; the memory was so real. the land did not look as if it ever had been plowed for a field. it was a smooth, green meadow, with cattle huddled upon the cool sward, or moving with slow, stately tread as they nibbled the tender shoots.

there was the house unchanged, gleaming white in the moon, seeming to invite him beneath its calm shelter. he wondered who 122dwelt within it now. whoever it was he would not have them find him, like a prowler, there at the gate. but he would come again and again like this at nighttime, to gaze and refresh his spirit.

a hand had been laid upon m’sieur michel’s shoulder and some one called his name. startled, he turned to see who accosted him.

“duplan!”

the two men who had not exchanged speech for so many years stood facing each other for a long moment in silence.

“i knew you would come back some day, michel. it was a long time to wait, but you have come home at last.”

m’sieur michel cowered instinctively and lifted his hands with expressive deprecatory gesture. “no, no; it’s no place for me, joe; no place!”

“isn’t a man’s home a place for him, michel?” it seemed less a question than an assertion, charged with gentle authority.

“twenty-five years, duplan; twenty-five years! it’s no use; it’s too late.”

“you see, i have used it,” went on the planter, quietly, ignoring m’sieur michel’s protestations. 123“those are my cattle grazing off there. the house has served me many a time to lodge guests or workmen, for whom i had no room at les chêniers. i have not exhausted the soil with any crops. i had not the right to do that. yet am i in your debt, michel, and ready to settle en bon ami.”

the planter had opened the gate and entered the inclosure, leading m’sieur michel with him. together they walked toward the house.

language did not come readily to either—one so unaccustomed to hold intercourse with men; both so stirred with memories that would have rendered any speech painful. when they had stayed long in a silence which was eloquent of tenderness, joe duplan spoke:

“you know how i tried to see you, michel, to speak with you, and you never would.”

m’sieur michel answered with but a gesture that seemed a supplication.

“let the past all go, michel. begin your new life as if the twenty-five years that are gone had been a long night, from which you have only awakened. come to me in the morning,” he added with quick resolution, “for 124a horse and a plow.” he had taken the key of the house from his pocket and placed it in m’sieur michel’s hand.

“a horse?” m’sieur michel repeated uncertainly; “a plow! oh, it’s too late, duplan; too late.”

“it isn’t too late. the land has rested all these years, man; it’s fresh, i tell you; and rich as gold. your crop will be the finest in the land.” he held out his hand and m’sieur michel pressed it without a word in reply, save a muttered “mon ami.”

then he stood there watching the planter disappear behind the high, clipped hedge.

he held out his arms. he could not have told if it was toward the retreating figure, or in welcome to an infinite peace that seemed to descend upon him and envelop him.

all the land was radiant except the hill far off that was in black shadow against the sky.