you are talking of your father."
"Well, I'm in for it this evening. 'Tis your turn now; positively, I am growing stupid, or going crazy. Forgive me, mother! forgive! That's the only word I can get out to-night. You know that, when I do let out on certain subjects, it is because I can't help it; for I know well the pain it gives you."
"You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy."
"It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend one's mother; and, with respect to what I said about father's return, I do not see that we have any cause to doubt it."
"But we have not heard from him for four months."
"You know, mother, in his letter—that is, in the letter which he dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier, he told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write); well, in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that he expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us word, three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive, that I might go and meet him."
"True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet."
"The greater reason why we should wait patiently. But I'll tell you more: I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back about the same time. His last letter from America makes me hope so. What pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!"
"Oh, yes, my child! It would be a happy day for me."
"And that day will soon come, trust me."
"Do you remember your father, Agricola?" inquired Mother Bunch.
"To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier's shako and moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother? But what is the matter? You are weeping!"
"Alas! poor Baudoin! What he must suffer at being separated from us at his age—sixty and past! Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another."
"What do you mean?"
"Alas! I earn nothing now."
"Why, what's become of me? Isn't there a room here for you and for him; and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of domestic affairs," added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, "when he and Gabriel come home, you won't want to have any more masses said, and tapers burned for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have tobacco to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day. Then, on Sundays, we will take a nice dinner at the eating-house."
A knocking at the door disturbed Agricola.
"Come in," said he. Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the door, and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the blacksmith.
"'Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers," said Agricola; "come in, Daddy, no ceremony."
"Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should cover missus's floor with green."
"So much the better. It will remind me of the fields I like so much."
"Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately."
"About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what's he to us?"
"No; I think he's gone; at any rate, the fog is so thick I can't see him. But that's not it—come, come quickly! It is very important," said the dyer, with a mysterious look; "and only concerns you."
"Me, only?" said Agricola, with surprise. "What can it be.
"Go and see, my child," said Frances.
"Yes, mother; but the deuce take me if I can make it out."
And the blacksmith left the room, leaving his mother with Mother Bunch.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE RETURN.
In five minutes Agricola returned; his face was pale and agitated—his eyes glistened with tears, and his hands trembled; but his countenance expressed extraordinary happiness and emotion. He stood at the door for a moment, as if too much affected to accost his mother.
Frances's sight was so bad that she did not immediately perceive the change her son's countenance had undergone.
"Well, my child—what is it?" she inquired.
Before the blacksmith could reply, Mother Bunch, who had more discernment, exclaimed: "Goodness, Agricola—how pale you are! Whatever is the matter?"
"Mother," said the artisan, hastening to Frances, without replying to the sempstress—"mother, expect news that will astonish you; but promise me you will be calm."
"What do you mean? How you tremble! Look at me! Mother Bunch was right—you are quite pale."
"My kind mother!" and Agricola, kneeling before Frances, took both her hands in his—"you must—you do not know—but—"
The blacksmith could not go on. Tears of joy interrupted his speech.
"You weep, my dear child! Your tears alarm me. 'What is the matter?—you terrify me!"
"Oh, no, I would not terrify you; on the contrary," said Agricola, drying his eyes—"you will be so happy. But, again, you must try and command your feelings, for too much joy is as hurtful as too much grief."
"What?"
"Did I not say true, when I said he would come?"
"Father!" cried Frances. She rose from her seat; but her surprise and emotion were so great that she put one hand to her heart to still its beating, and then she felt her strength fail. Her son sustained her, and assisted her to sit down.
Mother Bunch, till now, had stood discreetly apart, witnessing from a distance the scene which completely engrossed Agricola and his mother. But she now drew near timidly, thinking she might be useful; for Frances changed color more and more.
"Come, courage, mother," said the blacksmith; "now the shock is over, you have only to enjoy the pleasure of seeing my father."
"My poor man! after eighteen years' absence. Oh, I cannot believe it," said Frances, bursting into tears. "Is it true? Is it, indeed, true?"
"So true, that if you will promise me to keep as calm as you can, I will tell you when you may see him."
"Soon—may I not?"
"Yes; soon."
"But when will he arrive?"
"He may arrive any minute—to-morrow—perhaps to-day."
"To-day!"
"Yes, mother! Well, I must tell you all—he has arrived."
"He—he is—" Frances could not articulate the word.
"He was downstairs just now. Before coming up, he sent the dyer to apprise me that I might prepare you; for my brave father feared the surprise might hurt you."
"Oh, heaven!"
"And now," cried the blacksmith, in an accent of indescribable joy—"he is there, waiting! Oh, mother! for the last ten minutes I have scarcely been able to contain myself—my heart is bursting with joy." And running to the door, he threw it open.
Dagobert, holding Rose and Blanche by the hand, stood on the threshold. Instead of rushing to her husband's arms, Frances fell on her knees in prayer. She thanked heaven with profound gratitude for hearing her prayers, and thus accepting her offerings. During a second, the actors of this scene stood silent and motionless. Agricola, by a sentiment of respect and delicacy, which struggled violently