They arrived there on one of those soft autumnal mornings which have all the beauty of summer without its excessive heat. There was not a breath in the air; the birds sang loudly, the fallen leaves rustled gently, and a perfume of rich maturity of ripened grain and fruit filled the air. The paths through the woods were still green and fresh; Jack recognized them all, and, seeing them, regained a portion of his lost youth. Nature herself seemed to welcome him with open arms, and he was soothed and comforted. Charlotte left her son early the next morning, and the little house, with its windows thrown wide open to the soft air and sunlight, had a peaceful aspect. CHAPTER XIX. THE CONVALESCENT. “And to think that for five years I have been allowed to remain in the belief that my Jack was a thief!” “But, Dr. Rivals—” “And that if I had not happened to ask for a glass of milk at the Archambaulds, I should have continued to think so!” It was, on feet, at the forester’s cottage that Jack and his old friend had met. For ten days the youth had been living in solitude at Aulnettes. Each day he had become more like the Jack of his childhood. The only persons with whom he held any communication were the old forester and his wife, who had served Charlotte faithfully for so long a time. She watched over his health, purchased his provisions, and often cooked his dinner over her own fire, while he sat and smoked at the door. These people never asked a question, but when they saw his thin figure and heard his constant cough, they shook their heads. The interview between Dr. Rivals and Jack was at first embarrassing to both, but after a little conversation, and as soon as the doctor understood the truth, the awkwardness passed away. “And now,” said the old gentleman, gayly, “I hope we shall see you often. You have been sent out to grass, apparently, like an old horse, but you need more than that. You require great care, my boy, great care,—particularly in the coming season. Etiolles is not Nice, you understand. Our house is changed, for my poor wife died four years ago,—died of absolute grief. My granddaughter does her best to take her place; she keeps my books and makes up my prescriptions. How glad she will be to see you! Now when will you come?” Jack hesitated, as if he read his thoughts. The doctor added,— “Cécile knows nothing of all your troubles; so come without any feeling of restraint. It is too cold for you to be out late to-night; this fog is not good for you; but I shall expect you at breakfast to-morrow. Now in with you quickly; you must not be out after the dews begin to fall. If you do not appear I shall come for you.” As Jack closed the door of the house, he had a singular impression. It seemed to him that he had just come home from one of those long drives with the doctor; that he should find his mother in the dining-room, while the poet was above in the tower.