Germain? In a nice
little French house--cheap? With a nice French _bonne_ to cook--who
wouldn't waste his substance in the grease-pot? With a nice little
garden--where he could work himself, and get health, and save the
expense of keeping a gardener? It wasn't a bad idea. And it seemed to
promise well for the future--didn't it, Lecount?
So he ran on--the poor weak creature! the abject, miserable little man!
As the darkness gathered at the close of the short November day he began
to grow drowsy--his ceaseless questions came to an end at last--he fell
asleep. The wind outside sang its mournful winter-song; the tramp of
passing footsteps, the roll of passing wheels on the road ceased in
dreary silence. He slept on quietly. The firelight rose and fell on his
wizen little face and his nervous, drooping hands. Mrs. Lecount had not
pitied him yet. She began to pity him now. Her point was gained; her
interest in his will was secured; he had put his future life, of his
own accord, under her fostering care--the fire was comfortable; the
circumstances were favorable to the growth of Christian feeling.
"Poor wretch!" said Mrs. Lecount, looking at him with a grave
compassion--"poor wretch!"
The dinner-hour roused him.
Pages:
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960