Bristol stopped at the fence and called greeting.
The old man peered anxiously, shielding his eyes from the light of the lamp.
“M'sieu'! M'sieu'!” He stammered, brokenly, gasping as he spoke the words. His wrinkled face worked as if he were trying to keep back the tears. His voice choked.
“You are surprised to see me back here, Etienne—is that it?”
“I am not surprised, m'sieu'. I knew you would come back. I am glad—that's why the tear come up in my eye. I cannot help that.”
“You are working late, Uncle Etienne.”
“Oui, the odders are gone home. But this leetle boy—I take care till his modder come from the shop. But you shall come in here, m'sieu'.”
“I cannot stop, Etienne. I am—” He could not finish the sentence. He turned to go.
“I say you shall come in. You must come queeck!” The old man spoke in a shrill whisper. He put aside his knife and stick and hurried to the fence. He reached and caught Bristol's sleeve. “Ba gar!” he declared, with as much impatience as anybody had ever heard in the tone of Etienne Provancher, “even the poor habitant boy in the Tadousac country know better how to love the nice girl as what you do, M'sieu' Farr.”
“My name is not Farr; it is—”