“Idle rascal,” she said, “go and work.” (An execrable apostrophe this, the invention of miserly, heartless Mammon.)
“Sir,” replied the man, hoping to soften my heart, “I come from Chambéry.”
“So much the worse for you.”
“I am James. You saw me when you were in the country. I used to drive the sheep into the fields.”
“And what do you do here?” My soul began to regret the harshness of my first words; I almost think she regretted them a moment before they were uttered. In like manner, when one meets in the road a rut or puddle, one sees it, but has not time to avoid it.
Rose finished the work of bringing me to good sense and repentance. She had recognized Jem, who had often shared his crust with her, and she testified by her caresses, her remembrance and gratitude.
Meanwhile, Joannetti, who had gathered together what was left of my dinner, his own share, gave it at once to Jem.
Poor Joannetti!
Thus it is that in my journey I get lessons of philosophy and humanity from my servant and my dog.