“Who is that, Dagobert?”
“Yes, of whom did the traveller speak?”
“I know nothing about it; only the manner in which he pronounced those words struck me, and they were the last he spoke.”
“Love one another!” repeated Rose, thoughtfully.
“How beautiful are those words!” added Blanche.
“And whither was the traveller going?”
“Far, very far into the North, as he told your mother. When she saw him depart, she said to me: ‘His mild, sad talk has affected me even to tears; whilst I listened to him, I seemed to be growing better—I seemed to love my husband and my children more—and yet, to judge by the expression of his countenance, one would think that this stranger had never either smiled or wept!’ She and I watched him from the door as long as we could follow him with our eyes; he carried his head down, and his walk was slow, calm, and firm; one might fancy that he counted his steps. And, talking of steps, I remarked yet another thing.”
“What was it, Dagobert?”
“You know that the road which led to our house way, always damp, because of the overflowing of the little spring.”
“Yes.”