“Indeed I should,” she answered eagerly.
How very gently she spoke to me!
On our way home, she suggested that we take a longer but less sunny road. I reluctantly agreed, having already regretted my condescension in going so far with her.
“We’ll take your path,” I said, “we will go more rapidly.”
A long silence followed my remark, silence difficult to break after it had lasted some time.
We walked on, not exchanging a word, and came to a little house in the woods, the home of a peasant and his family. At the door stood a young woman on whose face shone the happiness of motherhood. In her arms she carried a blond rosy cherub, about her were two, three, four, five little tots, rising like steps, each one just a head taller than his next younger brother or sister. The whole family was watching and pointing, and we heard their loud exclamation and outburst of happy laughter, as a man with his scythe over his shoulder came down the path toward me. When he neared the little group, he waved and called out his greeting, with a voice that sounded like a deep-toned bell. He had been harvesting, and the honest sweat of hard toil trickled down his cheeks, but he forgot his tiring labour in the joy of home-coming, in his return as father of a family to his mid-day meal.
Raymonde stopped a moment.
“Look,” she said to me.
The radiant faces and the evident contentment were indeed a perfect picture of rustic life and the happiness of simplicity.
“Yes,” I replied, “the scene recalls a Dutch masterpiece. But see how many children there are.”