"It's the Breton," I said.
"Well, tell him to come in," said the old woman kindly.
As timidly as a child the Breton advanced over the threshold a few paces, looking about him in a kind of "lost" way until his eyes encountered Paula, and then he seemed to recover his ease of mind.
"I wish to speak with the Master," he said—directing his words to Teresa.
She led him into the study where my father sat, and left them together and then joined us in the kitchen once more.
"I declare!" said Rosa. "Think of the Breton calling on us! I thought he hated father since that day he discharged him from the factory two or three years ago."
"The Breton knows very well that when your father got rid of him he well deserved it," said Teresa, as she adjusted her spectacles and settled down to her knitting.
My father did not keep him long. From the kitchen we could hear the door open and my father's voice bidding the Breton a kindly "good night" Evidently the interview, although short, had been quite a cordial one.
"Go, tell the Breton to come into the kitchen, Lisita," said Teresa.
I wondered as I saw him enter with such a humble, frank air, and with a new look of peace that seemed almost to beautify the brutalized face.