And he let go of him, and strode away again.
When he got back it was dark, and he stood at his cottage door and looked in. Louise was sitting by the hearth, with her back to him, and her hands in her lap, rocking herself gently on her stool, and gazing into the glowing ash on the hearthstone. Opposite, on the other side of the hearth, Peter's own stool stood empty, and on the shelf beside it were the two yellow porringers, out of which he and Louise used always to sup together. His jersey, the one she had knitted for him when they were married, hung in the corner, with the bright blue patch in it, that she had been mending it with the last time he was at home. Louise was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not hear his approach, and stepping softly, he passed in and stood before her; she started back, and immediately began to whimper a little, putting up her hands to her face.
"Louise," said Peter, "wilt thou forgive me?"
She looked up perplexed, only half believing what she heard.
"I know everything. I have seen Jacques. I was harsh to thee, mon enfant."
"I meant no harm," said Louise. "I begged him not to come. I knew thou wouldest be angered."
"I am not angered. He is thy husband."
She glanced up with an irrepressible start of eagerness.
"Thou meanest—" Her very desire seemed to take away her speech.
Peter laid his hand on her wrist, as gently as a woman.