that he might be disappointed. One day, when she
could bear it no longer, she begged him in her sweet voice not to count
too much upon seeing his son for fear something might still keep him
away.

The blind man asked her what she meant.

"It is so terrible to hear the worst when one has been expecting the
best," she said brokenly. "If I say this it is because that is just what
happened to me. We had thought and hoped so much when my father was ill
that he would get better, but we lost him, and poor mama and I did not
know how to bear it. We would not think that he might die."

"Ah, but my boy is alive, and he will be here soon. He will come back to
me very soon," said the old man in a firm voice.

The next day the banker from Amiens called at the factory. He was met at
the steps by Talouel, who did all in his power to get the first
information which he knew the banker was bringing. At first his attitude
was very obsequious, but when he saw that his advances were repulsed,
and that the visitor insisted upon seeing his employer at once, he
pointed rudely in the direction of M. Vulfran's office and said:

"You will find him over there in that room," and then turned and went
off with his hands in his pockets.

The banker knocked on the door indicated.

"Come in," called out M. Vulfran, in answer to his knock.

"What, you ... you at Maraucourt!" he exclaimed when he saw his visitor.

"Yes, I had some business to attend to at Picquigny, and I came on here
to bring you some news received from Bosnia."

Perrine sat at her little table. She had gone very white; she seemed
like one struck dumb.

"Well?" asked M. Vulfran.

"It is not what you hoped, what we all hoped," said the banker quietly.

"You mean that that fellow who wrote just wanted to get hold of the
forty pounds."

"Oh, no; he seems an honest man...."

"Then he knows nothing?"

"He does, but unfortunately his information is only too true."

"Unfortunately!" gasped the blind man. This was the first word of doubt
that he had uttered. "You mean," he added, "that they have no more news
of him since last November?"

"There is no news since then. The French Consul at Serajevo, Bosnia, has
sent me this information:

"'Last November your son arrived at Serajevo practising the trade of a
strolling photographer....'"

"What do you mean?" exclaimed M. Vulfran. "A strolling photographer!...
My son?"

"He had a wagon," continued the banker, "a sort of car