"This one," Olivier answered.
The stranger thanked him, but at the sound of his voice, Clarisse, who had been listening, turned, and as she came nearer she gave a cry of joy.
"Is it possible! You here, Vaughan!" and she came towards him with outstretched hands.
The man's face lighted up with joy as he turned to greet her:
"Madame de Mauluçon!"
"Hush!" she said, then lowering her voice, she introduced the two young people, who, surprised at first, smiled and shook hands with this friend of their family, whose name they had so often heard at Pontivy and Paris. In a few words Clarisse explained to the newcomer their circumstances, pointing out the peasant's cottage hidden among the trees, where they lived away from the outside world. As she spoke her voice trembled, and she could with difficulty restrain her tears, for the man before her had held her dying husband in his arms. It was he who had heard his last words, closed his eyes, and sent Clarisse the terrible news. She longed to question him, but was restrained by the presence of the children. So when Marie Thérèse, who with a woman's instinct felt they had sad and serious things to say to each other, asked if they might leave them, Clarisse thanked her with an eloquent look.
"That is right, children," she said, "go on; we will rejoin you presently."
Alone with Vaughan, her eyes filled with tears; she overwhelmed him with questions, which he answered with exquisite delicacy, softening every painful detail. Clothing his words considerately in a mist of generalities, he guided the conversation with infinite tact, avoiding some points, putting others in his turn, and finally he spoke of the agreeable impression that Olivier and Marie Thérèse had produced on him.
"What a pretty couple they would make!" he said; "but I suppose you have already destined them for each other!"
Now she could smile. He continued—