“It is I, Kate!” he called. “I have come back.”
When she opened the door—half timorous, half eager, wholly beside herself—he took her in his arms and kissed her, paying no heed to the goggling eyes of childhood or the averted gaze of old age.
“But you left no word for me. Did you believe me when I said I would not come back?”
“I knew you would come back,” she sobbed. “So I came here. I knew you would find me here.”
Etienne drew near apologetically and picked up the little boy.
“Oh, my own girl, I have so much to tell you!” the lover murmured. “I know you will listen.”
“We have so much to tell each other,” she said, her hands against his cheeks.
The old man puffed out the lamp and set it to one side and tiptoed away, the child in his arms.
“You ke'p your head under my coat—just so,” he commanded the struggling and inquisitive youngster. “Your modder would not like to have you breath in so much night air. We go find her!”
He heard the murmur of eager voices behind him, and then the door of Mother Maillet's house was shut softly—and that left all the world outside.