These houses, which form the finish of the suburb, are not big, and are not prosperous; but we see one adorning itself with smoke, and we think of the dead wood coming to life again on the hearth, and of the seated workman, whose hands are rewarded with rest.  And that one, although motionless, is alive with children—­the breeze is scattering the laughter of their games and seems to play with it, and on the sandy ground are the crumbs of childish footsteps.  Our eyes follow the postman entering his home, his work ended; he has heroically overcome his long journeyings.  After carrying letters all day to those who were waiting for them, he is carrying himself to his own people, who also await him—­it is the family which knows the value of the father.  He pushes the gate open, he enters the garden path, his hands are at last empty!

Along by the old gray wall, old Eudo is making his way, the incurable widower whose bad news still stubbornly persists, so that he bears it along around him, and it slackens his steps, and can be seen, and he takes up more space than he seems to take.  A woman meets him, and her youth is disclosed in the twilight; it expands in her hurrying steps.  It is Mina, going to some trysting-place.  She crosses and presses her little fichu on her heart; we can see that distance dwindles affectionately in front of her.  As she passes away, bent forward and smiling with her ripe lips, we can see the strength of her heart.

Mist is gradually falling.  Now we can only see white things clearly—­the new parts of houses, the walls, the high road, joined to the other one by footpaths which straggle through the dark fields, the big white stones, tranquil as sheep, and the horse-pond, whose gleam amid the far obscurity imitates whiteness in unexpected fashion.  Then we can only see light things—­the stains of faces and hands, those faces which see each other in the gloom longer than is logical and exceed themselves.

Pervaded by a sort of serious musing, we turn back into the room and sit down, I on the edge of the bed, she on a chair in front of the open window, in the center of the pearly sky.

Her thoughts are the same as mine, for she turns her face to me and says: 

“And ourselves.”

* * * * * *

She sighs for the thought she has.  She would like to be silent, but she must speak.

“We don’t love each other any more,” she says, embarrassed by the greatness of the things she utters; “but we did once, and I want to see our love again.”

She gets up, opens the wardrobe, and sits down again in the same place with a box in her hands.  She says: 

“There it is.  Those are our letters.”

“Our letters, our beautiful letters!” she goes on.  “I could really say they’re more beautiful than all others.  We know them by heart—­but would you like us to read them again? You read them—­there’s still light enough—­and let me see how happy we’ve been.”