The same evening, after supper, Louise, taking her spinning-wheel with her, went to visit Mother Rochart, at whose cottage the good matrons and young girls of the village often met, and remained until near midnight, relating old legends, chatting of the rain, the weather, baptisms, marriages, the departure or return of conscripts, or any other matters of interest. Hullin, sitting before his little copper lamp, nailed the sabots of the old wood-cutter. He no longer gave a thought to Yegof. His hammer rose and fell upon the thick wooden soles mechanically, while a thousand fancies roamed through his mind. Now his thoughts wandered to Gaspard, so long unheard of; now to the campaign, so long prolonged. The lamp dimly lighted the little room; without, all was still. The fire grew dull; Jean-Claude arose to pile on another log, and then resumed his seat, murmuring: "This cannot last; we shall receive a letter one of these days." The village clock struck nine; and as Hullin returned to his work, the door opened, and Catherine Lefevre, the mistress of the Bois-de-Chênes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the astonishment of the sabot-maker, for it was not her custom to be abroad at such an hour. Catherine Lefevre might have been sixty years of age, but her form was straight and erect as at thirty. Her clear, gray eyes and hooked nose seemed to resemble the eyes and beak of the eagle. Her thin cheeks and the drooping corners of her mouth betokened habits of thought, and gave a sad and somewhat bitter expression to her face. A long brown hood covered her head and fell over her shoulders. Her whole appearance bespoke a firm and resolute character, and inspired in the beholder a feeling of respect, not untinged with fear. "You here, Catherine?" exclaimed Hullin in his surprise. "Even I, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman calmly. "I wish to speak with you. Is Louise at home?" "She is at Madeleine Rochart's." "So much the better," said Catherine, seating herself at the corner of the work-bench. Hullin gazed fixedly at her. There was something mysterious and unusual in her manner which caused in him a vague feeling of alarm. "What has happened?" he asked, laying aside his hammer. "Yegof the fool passed last night at the farm." "He was here this afternoon," said Hullin, who attached no importance to the fact. "Yes," continued Catherine, in a low tone; "he passed last night with us, and in the evening, at this hour, before the kitchen fire, his words were fearful." "Fearful!" muttered the sabot-maker, more and more astonished, for he had never before seen the old woman in such a state of alarm. "What did he say, Catherine?" {24} "He spoke of things which awakened strange dreams." "Dreams! You are mocking me." "No, no," she answered. And then, after a moment of silence, fixing her eyes upon the wondering Hullin, she continued: