Evening journal., 1890-02-17
FELICIE.

NO one remembered Such q drought
If old Gaspard had not died. said Ed
mond confidently to himself, che could have
matched ID; but then he's dead so no one re-
members so bad drought as this one"
But no one heard Edmond; if any one had
heard him, he would have paid no attention,
for Edmond did not have all his wits.
The grass and the crops, which once had
been green, were now brown; the earth was
baked hard and everywhere little cracks ran
in all directions. The rough places of the
roads were all hidden under thick mantle
Of dust, as kindly in its appearance as the
winters mantle, but less so in reality. Unless
the rain came--well---
"God knows what we shall do said one
village elder to another
And he never tells us until he is ready"
said Edmond, reverently
Sothe great drought lasted.
Then Armand Hamel died. 1t was not the
drought that killed him. No one knew exact
ly what had killed him. 81 cannot tell; it is
Gods doing, the doctor had said. But he
was dead and after death comes the funeral
For tho first time in months the sky was
overcast; the red sun ceased to glare upon the
earth, and under the gentle clouds the grass
and the crops seemed actually to revive a
little, and even to raise their heads again.
But no rain fell.
docs this mean rninr one villager would
ask Of another as they met in the parish house,
while their wives went at once into the
church TO pray.
Perhaps the man addressed would answer.
with a shrug, 1.-THE clouds hang low over the
cape;nor perhaps he would 60 out upon the
gallery, whence he had just come, and look
ing around at earth and sky and sea would
| say, cautiously; WHO knowsl Perhaps
In either case the answer was satisfactory
| Every one hoped for rain; almost no one
expected it; and the question was asked
rather to pass the time until the funeral SER
| vice should begin than because Eugene Da-
| sylvia thought that Joseph Billet could read
| the weather signs better than he himself
No one asked Edmond, but he Of all those
| present said nothing doubtful To Eugene
he said at once, 1T win rain; tho grass is
| getting ready for a shower But no one
heard him; atall events, no one paid any at
| tention; he was only half witted
Prom the gallery in front Of the parish
house one could see many things. Directly
in front was the road white with dust, filled
with the caleches and planches and quat-
roues which had brought the farmers and
villagers TO the church. Across the road
were fields, and beyond the fields hills, cut
into terraces by great glaciers melted ter
thousand years ago. On the right was thl
church, with its tin roof and its spires; ant
the priests house, with two willow trees il
front Of it, and the convent and the grave
yard. On tho left, behind the poor brown
trees was the seigneury; and behind tn
house, across the river-a mile wide when TIL
tide was In, barely two yards when the it'd
was out--rose the cape which gave the tow
its name, and seemed to protect the town i
named.
Over the cape hung black, threatening
clouds, but 50 little did they indicate rail
that the farmers eyes more readily sough
the church and the priests house than the.
did the rock and its low hanging crown.
In course of time a constant succession o
remarks and replies on the subject Of tn
weather had emptied the parish house of al
its male inmates; the women and childre
had already gone into the church. The me
stood on the gallery in front Of the house, a
most in silence; no one cared TO talk abou
the errand which lad brought them together
SO they stood waiting for something in ans
ious impatience
Suddenly from the steeple Of the churc
rang out sharply the little bell, and at Il
sound the men started, and crossed then
selves. Then, as if the expected had haI
pencd, they moved toward the church, I'll
oldest man leading the way, the younger me
| struggling TO avoid bringing up the rea
! Again the bell rang out 1t was tolling.
Out of the cloud of dust, along the marrow
worn road, came the yellow hearse, open
, the sky, bearing the red coffin, dust whit
now, wherein slept Armand Hamel. Benin
the hearse in the towns only two hor
\ vehicle, brought out ON great occasions Ill
!. weddings and funerals, rode the mourners
Xavier Hamel, Philomene his wife, and lit
Felicie Pelletier, tho maiden who was 70 hay
J. been Armand's wife. Had Armand lived b.
a month longer, Felicie had been their daug
ter now She was neither their daughter al
their sons widow
Il The men halted awkwardly at the chur,
door, and removed their hats as the hear
e drew up Thepriest stoo& on tho steps, mi
!. sal IN hand, and placing himself before 4
a coffin began the Office Of the dead. Most
4 the men without the church and tho wom
d within repeated audibly their prayers:
"a Deliver me, Lord, from them that ha
N me, that / be not swallowed in the ably
; that the pit wherein they have cast !
= close not above me.n And again: "Lo
God, king Of the ages thou alone art full
kindness; hear me, o Lord, whose pity is
:. ways ready TO pardon; guard my soul, a
- deliver it.n
u Meantime the mourners had entered {
- church, aud we're making their way TO th
4, seats They walked slowly. delayed ratl
~ by the emotions OF the girl than by any wes
- ness Of the older mourners. At last I'll
~ reached their places, and the burial serv
began.
- All this time the clouds that had enco
passed the cape came nearer, and more a
more assumed the character Of rain clou
2 The cape doomed up, and the miles of wa
between it and the church seemed but var
SO near it seemed to be. Edmond put out
hand, as if to touch the great rock; then
=. looked at the sky and went into the churcl
,ss Everything was strangely still The yo
ue OF tho priest sounded as IL it came fror
81 great distance. The children, usually n
20 less, SAT quietly. The darkness Of an
an preaching storm pervaded the church;
III hight before tho altar burned dinly and
certainly. Only whore Felicie sat, 1t seen
m m TO the lad, was there any light around