He relaxed his pace, as he mused upon the calm, peaceful life that he was about to lose, perhaps for ever; of his own little room, so cosy in winter, so fresh and gay in spring, when he threw open the casements, and inhaled the fresh breeze from the woods; of the drowsy ticking of the old clock, and, above all, of Louise, his dear little Louise, spinning quietly in the twilight, with downcast eyelids, and singing some old song in her clear, pure voice in the quiet evening hour, when a feeling of peace and repose stole over them both. This recollection came upon him so forcibly that the smallest objects, every humble implement of his own trade, the long, shining straps, the short-handled hatchet, the mallets, the little stove, the old cupboard, the glazed earthen porringers, the antique image of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old canopied bed at the end of the alcove, the bench, the trunk, the little copper lamp--all came back to his mind like a living picture, and the tears stood in his eyes. But it was, above all, Louise, his beloved child, whom he most pitied. What tears would she not shed! how she would pray of him to give up the thoughts of fighting! how she would cling about his neck, saying, "Oh! do not leave me, dear, dear father! Oh! I will love you so! Oh! say you will not leave me!" And the honest fellow saw her beautiful eyes bathed in tears; he felt her arms about his neck. For a moment the idea came into his head to deceive her, to make her believe something else--no matter what--to account for his absence, and console her; but such modes of dealing were foreign to his nature, and he grew more and more sad. As he was passing by the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, he went in to tell Catherine Lefévre that all was going well, and that the mountaineers only awaited the signal. A quarter of an hour later, Master Jean-Claude, descending the footpath to the house, stood opposite his own modest dwelling. CHAPTER VII. Before pushing open the creaking door, the idea struck Jean-Claude to see what Louise was doing at that moment. So he took a peep through the casement into the little room, and there he saw Louise standing by the curtains in the alcove; she seemed very busily employed in folding and unfolding some clothes spread out upon the bed. Her sweet face beamed with happiness, and her large blue eyes shone with a sort of enthusiasm; she was speaking aloud to herself at the same time. Hullin listened, but a cart that happened to be passing just at that moment prevented his hearing what she said. So, taking his resolution boldly, he entered, saying, in a firm voice; "Well, Louise, here I am back again." In an instant, the young girl, radiant with joy, and bounding like a fawn, was in his arms. "Ah! it is you, father dear; I was expecting you. Oh! what a time you have been away, but here you are at last!"