people there, and almost every one knelt as if the Host were passing.  There was not nearly room for them in the church.  In spite of their grief, the crowd was so silent that you could hear the sound of the bell during mass and the chanting as far as the end of the High Street; but when the procession started again for the new cemetery, which M. Benassis had given to the town, little thinking, poor man, that he himself would be the first to be buried there, a great cry went up.  M. Janvier wept as he said the prayers; there were no dry eyes among the crowd.  And so we buried him.

“As night came on the people dispersed, carrying sorrow and mourning everywhere with them.  The next day Gondrin and Goguelat, and Butifer, with others, set to work to raise a sort of pyramid of earth, twenty feet high, above the spot where M. Benassis lies; it is being covered now with green sods, and every one is helping them.  These things, dear father, have all happened in three days.

“M.  Dufau found M. Benassis’ will lying open on the table where he used to write.  When it was known how his property had been left, affection and regret for his loss became even deeper if possible.  And now, dear father, I am writing for Butifer (who is taking this letter to you) to come back with your answer.  You must tell me what I am to do.  Will you come to fetch me, or shall I go to you at Grenoble?  Tell me what you wish me to do, and be sure that I shall obey you in everything.

  “Farewell, dear father, I send my love, and I am your affectionate
  son,

ADRIEN GENESTAS.”

“Ah! well, I must go over,” the soldier exclaimed.

He ordered his horse and started out.  It was one of those still December mornings when the sky is covered with gray clouds.  The wind was too light to disperse the thick fog, through which the bare trees and damp house fronts seemed strangely unfamiliar.  The very silence was gloomy.  There is such a thing as a silence full of light and gladness; on a bright day there is a certain joyousness about the slightest sound, but in such dreary weather nature is not silent, she is dumb.  All sounds seemed to die away, stifled by the heavy air.

There was something in the gloom without him that harmonized with Colonel Genestas’ mood; his heart was oppressed with grief, and thoughts of death filled his mind.  Involuntarily he began to think of the cloudless sky on that lovely spring morning, and remembered how bright the valley had looked when he passed through it for the first time; and now, in strong contrast with that day, the heavy sky above him was a leaden gray, there was no greenness about the hills, which were still waiting for the cloak of winter snow that invests them with a certain beauty of its own.  There was something painful in all this bleak and bare desolation for a man who was traveling to find a grave at his journey’s end; the thought of that grave haunted him.  The lines of dark pine-trees here and there along the mountain ridges against the sky seized on his imagination; they were in keeping with the officer’s mournful musings.  Every time that he looked over the valley that lay before him, he could not help thinking of the trouble that had befallen the canton, of the man who had died so lately, and of the blank left by his death.