"I'll never forget what you've said and done this morning, Virginie
Poucette," he declared; "and if I break the back of the trouble that's in
my way, and come out cock o' the walk again"--the gold Cock of Beaugard
in the ruins near and the clarion of the bantam of his barnyard were in
his mind and ears--"it'll be partly because of you. I hug that thought
to me."

"I could do a good deal more than that," she ventured, with a tremulous
voice, and then she took her warm hand from his nervous grasp, and turned
sharply into the path which led back towards the Manor. She did not turn
around, and she walked quickly away.

There was confusion in her eyes and in her mind. It would take some time
to make the confusion into order, and she was now hot, now cold, in all
her frame, when at last she climbed into her wagon.

This physical unrest imparted itself to all she did that day. First her
horses were driven almost at a gallop; then they were held down to a slow
walk; then they were stopped altogether, and she sat in the shade of the
trees on the road to her home, pondering--whispering to herself and
pondering.

As her horses were at a standstill she saw a wagon approaching.
Instantly she touched her pair with the whip, and moved on. Before the
approaching wagon came alongside, she knew from the grey and the
darkbrown horses who was driving them, and she made a strong effort for
composure. She succeeded indifferently, but her friend, Mere Langlois,
did not notice this fact as her wagon drew near. There was excitement in
Mere Langlois' face.