a horse and a plow." He had taken the key of the house from his pocket and placed it in M'sieur Michel's hand.
"A horse?" M'sieur Michel repeated uncertainly; "a plow! Oh, it's too late, Duplan; too late."
"It isn't too late. The land has rested all these years, man; it's fresh, I tell you; and rich as gold. Your crop will be the finest in the land." He held out his hand and M'sieur Michel pressed it without a word in reply, save a muttered "Mon ami."
Then he stood there watching the planter disappear behind the high, clipped hedge.
He held out his arms. He could not have told if it was toward the retreating figure, or in welcome to an infinite peace that seemed to descend upon him and envelop him.
All the land was radiant except the hill far off that was in black shadow against the sky.
