"The Lord provides," returned the old gentleman, "no doubt, young man; but the hand of man is one of the means. You are wrong if you said that as a reproach, for never is cast-away bread—in the desert or on the crowded street—lost to living creatures. Here, the birds get it; there, the beggars."
"Though this be the wilds, I know of a man who wants to dispute that bread with the birds," said Gilbert, though struck by the soft and penetrating voice of the stranger.
"Are you the man—and are you hungered?"
"Sharply so, and if you would allow——"
With eager compassion the gentleman took up the crust, but, suddenly reflecting, he scrutinized Gilbert with a quick yet profound glance.
Gilbert was not so like a starving man that the meditation was warranted. His dress was decent, though earth-stained in places. His linen was white, for he had at Versailles, on the previous evening, changed his shirt out of his parcel; but from its dampness, it was visible that he had slept in the woods. In all this and his white and taper hands, the man of vague reverie was revealed rather than the hard worker.
Not wanting for tact, Gilbert understood the distrust and hesitation of the stranger in respect to him, and hastened to annul conjectures which might be unfavorable.
"After twelve hours, hunger begins, and I have eaten nothing for four-and-twenty," he observed.
The truth of the words was supported by his emotion, the quaver of his voice and the pallor of his face. The old gentleman therefore ceased to waver, or rather to fear. He held out not only the bread, but a handkerchief in which he was carrying cherries.
"I thank you," said Gilbert, repulsing the fruit gently; "only the bread, which is ample."