I dreamed of Paula the whole night long. I saw her either dying or dead, or in heaven with the angels; but in the morning all my fears had disappeared and a few days later I even forgot the whole thing. A week passed, and we had seen nothing of the Breton. Paula mentioned him several times, and I know she was praying for him. Teresa had gone to see Celestina, but she hadn't seen anything of him either. Apparently he had gone out early each day, and had returned very late. He had been the principal subject of our conversation as each night we came together in the big warm kitchen on those long winter evenings. Finally one evening just as we were finishing the dishes, there came two hesitating knocks on the outer door. "I wonder who can be calling at this hour," said Rosa. "It sounds like some child that can't knock very well," said Catalina. "Open the door, Lisita!" Only too glad to abandon my towel, I ran to open the door, but hardly had I done so when I remained petrified and dumb with surprise, hardly able to believe my own eyes. There stood the Breton twisting his battered cap nervously between his bony fingers. The little oil lamp, which we always kept lighted at night in the passageway, illuminated his pale face and gaunt figure. "Good evening, mademoiselle," he finally managed to say, and then he stopped, apparently as embarrassed as I was. "Who it is?" said Teresa, as she started to come to my rescue. "It's the Breton," I said. "Well, tell him to come in," said the old woman kindly. As timidly as a child the Breton advanced over the threshold a few paces, looking about him in a kind of "lost" way until his eyes encountered Paula, and then he seemed to recover his ease of mind. "I wish to speak with the Master," he said--directing his words to Teresa. She led him into the study where my father sat, and left them together and then joined us in the kitchen once more. "I declare!" said Rosa. "Think of the Breton calling on us! I thought he hated father since that day he discharged him from the factory two or three years ago." "The Breton knows very well that when your father got rid of him he well deserved it," said Teresa, as she adjusted her spectacles and settled down to her knitting. My father did not keep him long. From the kitchen we could hear the door open and my father's voice bidding the Breton a kindly "good night" Evidently the interview, although short, had been quite a cordial one. "Go, tell the Breton to come into the kitchen, Lisita," said Teresa. I wondered as I saw him enter with such a humble, frank air, and with a new look of peace that seemed almost to beautify the brutalized face. "Mademoiselle Paula," he said as he stopped in the middle of our kitchen, "I wish to say a word or two." "To me alone?" said Paula rising.