I took my basket from its hiding-place and hastened up the stairs to the tower. Before knocking I listened a moment at the door. The old man was up, and already engaged in prayer. I heard the most touching petitions put up for my father and mother and for myself. Surely all the prayers offered for me in my childhood and youth were not thrown away. It was for their sake that I was not left to perish in the wilderness of this world into which I wandered.
When the voice ceased, I made the signal, and the door was opened.
"Ah, my daughter, good-morning," said the old man, with a benignant smile. "I began to fear some evil had befallen you or yours. Has not your father returned?"
"No, monsieur, he said he might possibly not arrive till to-night. I was ill last night, and not able to come to you. I hope you have not been hungry."
And with some housewifely importance, I arranged my provisions on the old table and poured out a tall glass full of the rich, frothy milk.
"This is indeed refreshing," said the old pastor after a long draught; "better than wine to an old man. Milk is for babes, they say; and I suppose as we approach our second childhood we crave it again. I remember, as I lay for four days in a cave by the sea-shore, with nothing to eat but the muscles and limpets, and no drink but the brackish water which dripped from the rocks, I was perpetually haunted by the remembrance of my mother's dairy, with its vessels of brass and red earthenware overflowing with milk and cream. But, my child, you are a bountiful provider. Will you not awaken suspicion?"
"Oh, no, monsieur; I have taken everything from the storeroom, where no one ever goes but maman and Mrs. Grace, her English gentlewoman. I must leave you now, but I will come again to-night."
I found my mother up and dressed. We had only just finished our morning reading when Julienne appeared, with the news that Simon and Jeanne Sablot desired to see madame.
"I fear the good woman has had news of her daughter," observed Julienne. "Her eyes are swollen with weeping."
"Bring them to me at once," said my mother. "Poor Jeanne! There is but One who can comfort her. I suppose Lucille has gone."