I don't believe a bit of it; and as for him, all the time he has been away he has never so much as sent a word of a message to one of us.' 'He sent his love to you, when I saw him, quite dutifully,' said Madame Voss.
'Why don't he come and see us if he cares for us?
It isn't of him that Marie is thinking.' 'It isn't of anybody else then,' said Madame Voss.

'I never see her speak a word to any of the young men, nor one of them ever speaking a word to her.' Pondering over all this, Michel Voss resolved that he would have it all out with his niece on the following Sunday.
On the Sunday he engaged Marie to start with him after dinner to the place on the hillside where they were cutting wood.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, in that pleasantest of all months in the year, when the sun is not too hot, and the air is fresh and balmy, and one is still able to linger abroad, loitering either in or out of the shade, when the midges cease to bite, and the sun no longer scorches and glares; but the sweet vestiges of summer remain, and everything without doors is pleasant and friendly, and there is the gentle unrecognised regret for the departing year, the unconscious feeling that its glory is going from us, to add the inner charm of a soft melancholy to the outer luxury of the atmosphere.

I doubt whether Michel Voss had ever realised the fact that September is the kindliest of all the months, but he felt it, and enjoyed the leisure of his Sunday afternoon when he could get his niece to take a stretch with him on the mountain-side.

On these occasions Madame Voss was left at home with M.le Cure, who liked to linger over his little cup of coffee.