“For you, Master Francis.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
He had never confided his grief to any one; his pride and reserve kept pity at a distance; but he accepted it from this poor old woman, and gave her his hand. “You’ve heard of all my troubles?”
“Yes, Master Francis.”
“The last of them?”
“Yes—through a man from Saint Cassin, who came back from town this morning.”
“Ah, I see.”
They were silent; then Mother Fauchois began her lamentations again in a loud voice. It is not the way of the primitive to be silent in sorrow.
“Master Hubert, so gallant, so nice and young, so good to everybody! He used to come into the kitchen and watch the dishes and laugh with us. And madame—madame was one of the good God’s saints. They are the sort you find in Paradise, Master Francis.”