"It would be a hopeless task," he returned.
"How do you stand it?" she inquired, somewhat irrelevantly.
"Why, I've my home and my work," said he, now on the defensive. "It's only occasionally that I hunger for the traffic lands. Then, like to-night, I take my gipsying vicariously."
Jean François straightened up from his work over the fire.
"Jesus, the good Master," said he, "loved the roads, the Judean hills, the laughing Jordan, and to sleep out under the stars at night, did he not?"
"True," replied the parson.
"He possessed the genuine poetic spirit of vagabondia, my son," continued the pedler, who was older than the visitor. "He followed the roads and sought the hillsides for his couch. It's many a joyous, irresponsible, nomadic journey he made over the countryside. He loved the poor, the common people, the oppressed, the struggler—all save the struggler at the needle's eye—and the happy sunny hills of Arcady."
"I know, my friend," was the reply.
"I also know your point of view, comrade," said Jean François, suddenly melting into sympathy. "You are right. It could not be done. At least in America. You would have to either give up your walk or your talk. The people'd make you.... Let's see—they would call it a sort of highway heresy.... Now, things are vastly different in my sunny France."
"And in Paradise, too, I hope," smiled the parson, with good humor.