Then she put him to her bosom again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence he came.
"If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will become of him--what will he be ?" Her heart was anxious.
"I will call him Paul," she said suddenly; she knew not why.
After a while she went home.

A fine shadow was flung over the deep green meadow, darkening all.
As she expected, she found the house empty.

But Morel was home by ten o'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.
Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable.

His work seemed to exhaust him.

When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody.
If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about his dinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that made their mother's blood boil, and made them hate him.
On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock.