"We were both set back in memory, it seems. And even I am getting to be quite an old man."
"But I like old men," she said, with charming frankness, and a tint of color deepened in her cheek. "They are all old except father, and the men who come in to play games are wrinkled up, and some of them have white hair. I've had such a lot of grandfathers, and only one grandmother."
"How did you get more than two?"
"It was great-grandfather Duvernay," explained Barbe, "that made the third."
"And this is his chair. Mother wanted to take it away, but I could not bear to have it leave this corner. I could see him in it. Strange how you can see one who is not really there, or do they come back for a moment? Here is the arm where I sat, and I used to put my arm round his neck. I am going to let you sit in his chair. Father won't mind;" glancing inquiringly at her mother.
"Dilly, you are too forward," and Barbe colored. Felix was climbing in her lap and almost upset her.
"No, no; her prattle is the most cordial welcome. And I hope you will soon like me well enough to come and sit on the arm and hear my stories."
"Oh, have you what Norry calls a bag of stories, that the little brown men carry about? They're queer, and they drop them over you while you are asleep, and that makes dreams, and you see people, and have good times with them."
M. de Ronville laughed. Bernard came in; he had been settling the man, and the luggage, and now repeated his hearty welcome.
When M. de Ronville settled himself in the corner and the chair you could almost fancy grandfather had come back. They had a strong likeness of race of the higher type, those who had been pure livers and held strongly to their religion. He was very tired with the journey and looked pale as he sat there, relaxed.