“Would you like to have me take you myself?  I have a little English cart which can run about anywhere,” said Zibeline.

The proposition was tempting.  The sweetness of a tete-a-tete might diminish the bitterness of recollections.  He accepted.

She ordered the cart brought around, and they climbed into the small vehicle, which was drawn by a strong pony, driven by Zibeline herself.

“Which way?” she asked, when they had passed through the gates.

“To the right,” he said, pointing to a rough, half-paved slope, an abandoned part of what had been in former days the highway, which now joins the new road at the Beaumont tunnel.

Passing this point, and leaving on their left the state road of l’Ile-d’Adam, they drove through a narrow cross-cut, between embankments, by which one mounts directly to the high, plateau that overlooks the town of Presles.

The hill was steep, and the pony was out of breath.  They were compelled to stop to allow him to rest.

“It is not necessary to go any farther,” said Henri to his companion.  “I need only to take a few steps in order to see what interests me.”

“I will wait for you here,” she replied, alighting after him.  “Don’t be afraid to leave me alone.  The horse will not move; he is used to stopping.”

He left her gathering daisies, and walked resolutely to the panoramic point of view, where a strange and unexpected sight met his eyes!

All that had once been so dear to him had regained its former aspect.  The kitchen-gardens had given place to the rich pastures, where yearling colts frisked gayly.  The factory had disappeared, and the chateau had been restored to its original appearance.  The walls enclosing the park had been rebuilt, and even several cleared places indicated the sites of cottages that had been pulled down.

Henri de Prerolles could hardly believe his eyes!  Was he the sport of a dream or of one of those mirages which rise before men who travel across the sandy African deserts?  The latitude and the position of the sun forbade this interpretation.  But whence came it, then?  What fairy had turned a magic ring in order to work this miracle?

A crackling of dry twigs under a light tread made him turn, and he beheld Zibeline, who had come up behind him.

The fairy was there, pale and trembling, like a criminal awaiting arrest.

“Is it you who have done this?” Henri exclaimed, with a sob which no human strength could have controlled.

“It is I!” she murmured, lowering her eyes.  “I did it in the hope that some day you would take back that which rightfully belongs to you.”

“Rightfully, you say?  By what act?”

“An act of restitution.”

“You never have done me any injury, and nothing authorizes me to accept such a gift from Mademoiselle de Vermont.”

“Vermont was the family name of my mother.  When my father married her, he obtained leave to add it to his own.  I am the daughter of Paul Landry.”