Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall of
Belair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain was
married. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. They
recovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow.
While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertain
steps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leaving
his young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as it
mounted to the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returning
thanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes,
seemed to him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before the
budding leaves. Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him.
Little Pierre had laughed and jumped so much the evening before that he
did not come to help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone.
He fell on his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and said
his morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolled
down his cheeks, still moist with sweat.

Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, who
were starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voices
the happy tunes of the night before.

THE END.