"But as he isn't, there's no occasion for it," said Theresa, carelessly, and continuing to knit with all her might.
"What a pleasant voice you have, Theresa! I wish you would sing us a song."
"That's likely, isn't it?" said the girl.
"Come now, do."
"Thank you, I am going to take my little sisters to bed." And she moved away from him. He looked after her with a mixture of admiration and pique.
Just as the traveller, after some inquiries about the roads, was about to depart, two more men hastily entered. The first was a Capuchin friar, of stalwart make, with the hood of his brown woollen gown pulled so forward that nothing could readily be made out of him but a thick, flowing beard of the hue that partial mothers are apt to call auburn, though others often pronounce it red.
"The peace of God rest on this house, through Jesus Christ our Lord!" said he.
"For ever and ever!" meekly responded the rest.
The Capuchin's companion was a light, active young mountaineer of three-and-twenty, brown as a nut, and well becoming the picturesque national costume. As soon as Theresa, who was just leaving the kitchen, saw him, she reddened very much, and hastily withdrew.