husbands (who often bring back the children) gossip with each other while still at work.  The roofs are casting up the lines of smoke which tell of the evening meal, the gayest among the peasantry; after which, they sleep.  All actions express the tranquil cheerful thoughts of those whose day’s work is over.  Songs are heard very different in character from those of the morning; in this the peasants imitate the birds, whose warbling at night is totally unlike their notes at dawn.  All nature sings a hymn to rest, as it sang a hymn of joy to the coming sun.  The slightest movements of living beings seem tinted then with the soft, harmonious colors of the sunset cast upon the landscape and lending even to the dusty roadways a placid air.  If any dared deny the influence of this hour, the loveliest of the day, the flowers would protest and intoxicate his senses with their penetrating perfumes, which then exhale and mingle with the tender hum of insects and the amorous note of birds.

The brooks which threaded the plain beyond the village were veiled in fleecy vapor.  In the great meadows through which the high-road ran, —­bordered with poplars, acacias, and ailanthus, wisely intermingled and already giving shade,—­enormous and justly celebrated herds of cattle were scattered here and there, some still grazing, others ruminating.  Men, women, and children were ending their day’s work in the hay-field, the most picturesque of all the country toils.  The night air, freshened by distant storms, brought on its wings the satisfying odors of the newly cut grass or the finished hay.  Every feature of this beautiful panorama could be seen perfectly; those who feared a coming storm were finishing in haste the hay-stacks, while others followed with their pitchforks to fill the carts as they were driven along the rows.  Others in the distance were still mowing, or turning the long lines of fallen grass to dry it, or hastening to pile it into cocks.  The joyous laugh of the merry workers mingling with the shouts of the children tumbling each other in the hay, rose on the air.  The eye could distinguish the pink, red, or blue petticoats, the kerchiefs, and the bare legs and arms of the women, all wearing broad-brimmed hats of a coarse straw, and the shirts and trousers of the men, the latter almost invariably white.  The last rays of the sun were filtering through the long lines of poplars planted beside the trenches which divided the plain into meadows of unequal size, and caressing the groups of horses and carts, men, women, children, and cattle.  The cattlemen and the shepherd-girls were beginning to collect their flocks to the sound of rustic horns.

The scene was noisy, yet silent,—­a paradoxical statement, which will surprise only those to whom the character of country life is still unknown.  From all sides came the carts, laden with fragrant fodder.  There was something, I know not what, of torpor in the scene.  Veronique walked slowly and silently between Gerard and the rector, who had joined her on the terrace.