You see, I have used it," went on the planter, quietly, ignoring M'sieur Michel's protestations. "Those are my cattle grazing off there. The house has served me many a time to lodge guests or workmen, for whom I had no room at Les Chêniers. I have not exhausted the soil with any crops. I had not the right to do that. Yet am I in your debt, Michel, and ready to settle en bon ami."
The planter had opened the gate and entered the inclosure, leading M'sieur Michel with him. Together they walked toward the house.
Language did not come readily to either - one so unaccustomed to hold intercourse with men; both so stirred with memories that would have rendered any speech painful. When they had stayed long in a silence which was eloquent of tenderness, Joe Duplan spoke:
"You know how I tried to see you, Michel, to speak with you, and- you never would."
M'sieur Michel answered with but a gesture that seemed a supplication.
"Let the past all go, Michel. Begin your new life as if the twenty-five years that are gone had been a long night, from which you have only awakened. Come to me in the morning," he added with quick resolution, "for 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.
