shaking his white locks dismally.  Grandsons were all very well, but he wanted his soup at midday.  When shown the babies, he stared at them with a fixed gaze, and muttered something like:  “It’s too much.”  Whether he meant too much happiness, or simply commented upon the number of his descendants, it is impossible to say.  He looked offended—­as far as his old wooden face could express anything; and for days afterwards could be seen, almost any time of the day, sitting at the gate, with his nose over his knees, a pipe between his gums, and gathered up into a kind of raging concentrated sulkiness.  Once he spoke to his son, alluding to the newcomers with a groan:  “They will quarrel over the land.”  “Don’t bother about that, father,” answered Jean-Pierre, stolidly, and passed, bent double, towing a recalcitrant cow over his shoulder.

He was happy, and so was Susan, his wife.  It was not an ethereal joy welcoming new souls to struggle, perchance to victory.  In fourteen years both boys would be a help; and, later on, Jean-Pierre pictured two big sons striding over the land from patch to patch, wringing tribute from the earth beloved and fruitful.  Susan was happy too, for she did not want to be spoken of as the unfortunate woman, and now she had children no one could call her that.  Both herself and her husband had seen something of the larger world—­he during the time of his service; while she had spent a year or so in Paris with a Breton family; but had been too home-sick to remain longer away from the hilly and green country, set in a barren circle of rocks and sands, where she had been born.  She thought that one of the boys ought perhaps to be a priest, but said nothing to her husband, who was a republican, and hated the “crows,” as he called the ministers of religion.  The christening was a splendid affair.  All the commune came to it, for the Bacadous were rich and influential, and, now and then, did not mind the expense.  The grandfather had a new coat.

Some months afterwards, one evening when the kitchen had been swept, and the door locked, Jean-Pierre, looking at the cot, asked his wife:  “What’s the matter with those children?” And, as if these words, spoken calmly, had been the portent of misfortune, she answered with a loud wail that must have been heard across the yard in the pig-sty; for the pigs (the Bacadous had the finest pigs in the country) stirred and grunted complainingly in the night.  The husband went on grinding his bread and butter slowly, gazing at the wall, the soup-plate smoking under his chin.  He had returned late from the market, where he had overheard (not for the first time) whispers behind his back.  He revolved the words in his mind as he drove back.  “Simple!  Both of them. . . .  Never any use! . . .  Well!  May be, may be.  One must see.  Would ask his wife.”  This was her answer.  He felt like a blow on his chest, but said only:  “Go, draw me some cider.  I am thirsty!”

She went out moaning, an empty jug in her hand.  Then he arose, took up the light, and moved slowly towards the cradle.  They slept.  He looked at them sideways, finished his mouthful there, went back heavily, and sat down before his plate.  When his wife returned he never looked up, but swallowed a couple of spoonfuls noisily, and remarked, in a dull manner—­