id.
The young girl stopped short--opened her big eyes and recognized him (for
who did not know the dear old Judge Zacharias in that part of the
country?).
"Ah!" she said, with a bright smile, "it is Mr. Zacharias Seiler!"
The old man approached her--he tried to speak--but all he could do was to
stammer a few unintelligible words, just like a very young man--his
embarrassment was so great that he completely disconcerted the young girl.
At last he managed to say:
"Where are you going through the forest at this hour, my dear child?"
She stretched out her hand and showed him, way at the end of the valley, a
forester's house.
"I am returning to my father's house, the Corporal Yeri Foerster. You know
him, without doubt, Monsieur le Juge."
"What, are you our brave Yeri's daughter? Ah, do I know him? A very worthy
man. Then you are little Charlotte of whom he has often spoken to me when
he came with his official reports?"
"Yes, Monsieur; I have just come from the town and am returning home."
"That is a very pretty bunch of Alpine berries you have,'" exclaimed the
old man.
She detached the bouquet from her belt and tendered it to him.
"If it would please you, Monsieur Seiler."
Zacharias was touched.
"Yes, indeed," he said, "I will accept it, and I will accompany you home.
I am anxious to see this brave Foerster again. He must be getting old by
now."
"He is about your age, Monsieur le Juge," said Charlotte innocently,
"between fifty-five and sixty years of age."
This simple speech recalled the good man to his senses, and as he walked
beside her be became pensive.
What was he thinking of? Nobody could tell; but how many times, how many
times has it happened that a brave and worthy man, thinking that he had
fulfilled all his duties, finds that he has neglected the greatest, the
most sacred, the most beautiful of all--that of love. And what it costs
him to think of it when it is too late.
Soon Mr. Zacharias and Charlotte came to the turn of the valley where the
path spanned a little pond by means of a rustic bridge, and led straight
to the corporal's house. They could now see Yeri Foerster, his large felt
hat decorated with a twig of heather, his calm eyes, his brown cheeks and
grayish hair, seated on the stone bench near his doorway; two beautiful
hunting dogs, with reddish-brown coats, lay at his feet, and the high vine
arbor behind him rose to the peak of the gable roof.
The shadows on Rom
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