"I am," he said simply. My French is fairly inadequate in my calmest moments; in times of excitement it is non-existent, but he must have understood the joy in my face, and the hand I held out in welcome. He shook his head; his hand was not clean; my own was less so, and I was so proud! As I told Peter, if I had not been weeding, our guest would not have been properly greeted. Don, the wretched little creature, taking his cue from me, was gaily barking a welcome in a wholly different tone of voice from that which he had used at first. You see, he never would have known that the wayfarer was respectable if he had not considered himself properly introduced by my handshake. "Is Marie Lepont here?" I told him in my matter-of-fact way that she was, and I said nothing more; they might do their own explaining, I thought, as they understood their own language, not to speak of anything else, far better than I. So I only motioned to him and went on tiptoe to the corner of the house; Marie was sitting in the garden, as she sits so often, in the rocking-chair, knitting, knitting for the soldiers. The air is full of the fragrance of ripening apples, of falling leaves, and fading fern. She is very quiet in the sunshine, and the shadows of the grapevine leaves upon her face hardly change for half an hour at a time. I motioned to him, and then I ran away, back to my weeding,--to anything. If it were really he! I wondered if even they felt an anguish so intense, a joy so intense as my own. It must have lent me greater power than I really have, for I tugged and tugged to relieve my feelings; the burdock came up, root and all, and I sat down rather suddenly, panting. Peter remonstrated mildly, shaking his head. "You really shouldn't, Miss!" "Then why don't you?" I asked. "It was here all the time, and you have a spade." "I've 'ad no directions, Miss," he said stiffly. "But I don't refer to the weeding; I dessay it is because you are an American and don't understand, but you really shouldn't let disrespectable people in that way. He may be a burglar; he may be robbing the 'ouse at this very minute. But why, if you don't mind me asking, are you crying, Miss?" "I'm not!" I answered indignantly. "I never cry. Peter, will you lend this man your precious Sunday suit?" "Never, Miss!" declared Peter, somewhat heated, and mopping his forehead. "A tramp like that!" "You believe in the brotherhood of man, don't you?" "Of course I do; certingly I do." "Madge," I called through the kitchen window, "please start the heater and get water ready for a bath. And please lay out Peter's Sunday suit; he wants to lend it to a brother man." "Brother man, indeed!" ejaculated Peter, and he went on digging. He is getting a bed ready for next spring's daffodils. "Peter," I said with some severity, "I want to see if I can respect your social convictions; this is the first chance I have had to test them."