"You're so free at asking questions," said the woman, "that there can be no harm in my asking where _have_ you come from--being, as you say, a stranger in these parts?" "Ah, mistress," said the man, "questions are easily asked. It's a different thing answering them. Where I've come from is nothing to anybody who's not been there. To them it means a lot. Thank you for your information." He swung off without another word towards the village. He had no difficulty in finding Doctor Louis's house, and observing that something unusual was taking place, held his purpose in and took mental notes. He followed the procession to the churchyard, and was witness to the sympathy and sorrow shown for the lady whose body was taken to its last resting-place. He did not know at the time whether it was man or woman, and he took no pains to ascertain till the religious ceremony was over. Then he addressed himself to a little girl. "Who is dead?" "Our Angel Mother," replied the girl. "She had a name, little one." His voice was not unkindly. The answer to his question--"Angel Mother"--had touched him. He once had a mother, the memory of whom still remained with him as a softening if not a purifying influence. It is the one word in all the languages which ranks nearest to God. "What was hers?" "Don't you know? Everybody knows. Doctor Louis's wife." "Doctor Louis's wife!" he muttered. "And I had a message for her!" Then he said aloud, "Dead, eh?" "Dead," said the little girl mournfully. "And you are sorry?" "Everybody is sorry." "Ah," thought the man, "it bears out what _he_ said." Again, aloud: "That gentleman yonder, is he Doctor Louis?" "Yes." "The priest--his name is Father Daniel, isn't it?" "Yes." "The young lady by Doctor Louis's side, is she his daughter?" "Yes." "Is her husband there--Gabriel Carew?" "Yes; there he is." And the girl pointed him out. The man nodded, and moved apart. But he did not remain so; he mingled with the throng, and coming close to the persons he had asked about, gazed at them, as though in the endeavour to fix their faces in his memory. Especially did he gaze, long and earnestly, at Gabriel Carew. None noticed him; they were too deeply preoccupied in their special sorrow. When the principal mourners moved away, he followed them at a little distance, and saw them enter Doctor Louis's house. Being gone from his sight, he waited patiently. Patience was required, because for three or four hours none who entered the house emerged from it. Nature, however, is a stern mistress, and in her exactions is not to be denied. The man took from his pocket some bread and cheese, which he cut with a stout clasp knife, and devoured. At four o'clock in the afternoon Father Daniel came out of the house. The man accosted him. "You are Father Daniel?" "I am." And the priest, with his earnest eyes upon the stranger, said, "I do not know you."