But heaven had still a joy reserved for that day—especially for Louise and Mother Lefevre. Toward noon, when the bright sunshine sparkled on the snow and melted the frost upon the window-panes, old Yohan, the toothless and almost blind watchdog, began to bay so joyously that all present stopped talking, and listened.
"What can it mean?" thought Catherine. "Since my boy's departure Yohan has not barked like that."
Swift steps were heard crossing the yard; Louise sprang to the door; a soldier appeared on the threshold—but a soldier so worn, thin, weary, and ragged—his old grey great-coat so torn, his canvas gaiters so tattered, that a murmur of pity ran from mouth to mouth.
He seemed unable to go a step further, and slowly placed the butt of his musket upon the ground; his face was the color of bronze, but his unkempt moustaches trembled, his cheeks grew pale beneath their brown skin, and his hollow eyes filled with tears when he gazed on the party within.
Without, the old dog barked, whined, and tugged at his chain; within, you could hear the fire crackle in the deep silence. But in a moment Catherine had rushed forward, and was hanging upon the soldier's neck.
"Gaspard! Gaspard! my boy!" she cried, while the tears burst from her eyes.
"Yes, mother!" he replied, in a voice choked by a sob.
Then Louise sobbed too, and then the whole kitchen was filled with voices. Gaspard's name was on every tongue, and every hand was stretched forth to clasp his.
But the mother would not yet give up her son; the woman, a moment before so strong, so brave, so resolute, still hung weeping upon his neck, his brown hair mingling with her grey locks, as he murmured:
"Mother! mother! how often have I thought of this meeting! But where is Louise?" he said. "I thought I saw her."