+The Wife.+
[_Completing his thought._]
Aye. At least,
God be thanked! we’re together!
[_Millet’s voice again is heard softly in a snatch of song._]
+The Husband.+
[_Recurring to a former train of thought._]
But as for him yon
And his pictures...!
[_Shakes his head, resigning the subject._]
+The Wife.+
Poor soul! He means well!
[_The daylight, bright at first, gradually has declined to
twilight. As_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+, _their work ended,
prepare to leave the field, from the tower of Chailly church
rings the evening Angelus. Setting down barrow, planting
pitchfork, the two bow their heads in prayer, repeating_]:
“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,
And she conceived of the Holy Ghost.
Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee....”
[_The bell grows fainter and fainter. The words die on the lips
of the man and woman. The figures become motionless, as if the
scene were being translated from the realm of reality to that
of fantasy. Then the curtains are drawn._]