!"

They had breakfasted the following morning, and Father Fouchard was
alone in the kitchen when the door was thrown open and Goliah in the
flesh entered the room, big and burly, with the ruddy hue of health on
his face and his tranquil smile. If the old man experienced anything
in the nature of a shock at the suddenness of the apparition he let
no evidence of it escape him. He peered at the other through his
half-closed lids while he came forward and shook his former employer
warmly by the hand.

"How are you, Father Fouchard?"

Then only the old peasant seemed to recognize him.

"Hallo, my boy, is it you? You've been filling out; how fat you are!"

And he eyed him from head to foot as he stood there, clad in a sort
of soldier's greatcoat of coarse blue cloth, with a cap of the same
material, wearing a comfortable, prosperous air of self-content. His
speech betrayed no foreign accent, moreover; he spoke with the slow,
thick utterance of the peasants of the district.

"Yes, Father Fouchard, it's I in person. I didn't like to be in the
neighborhood without dropping in just to say how-do-you-do to you."

The old man could not rid himself of a feeling of distrust. What was the
fellow after, anyway? Could he have heard of the francs-tireurs' visit
to the farmhouse the night before? That was something he must try
to ascertain. First of all, however, it would be best to treat him
politely, as he seemed to have come there in a friendly spirit.

"Well, my lad, since you are so pleasant we'll have a glass together for
old times' sake."

He went himself and got a bottle and two glasses. Such expenditure of
wine went to his heart, but one must know how to be liberal when he has
business on hand. The scene of the preceding night was repeated, they
touched glasses with the same words, the same gestures.

"Here's to your good health, Father Fouchard."

"And here's to yours, my lad."

Then Goliah unbent and his face assumed an expression of satisfaction;
he looked about him like a man pleased with the sight of objects that
recalled bygone times. He did not speak of the past, however, nor, for
the matter of that, did he speak of the present. The conversation ran
on the extremely cold weather, which would interfere with farming
operations; there was one good thing to be said for the snow, however:
it would kill off the insects. He barely alluded, with a slightly pained
expression, to the partially concealed hatred, the af