The old corporal, whose eyes were as piercing as an eagle’s, recognized Monsieur Zacharias and his daughter from afar.  He came toward them, lifting his felt hat respectfully.

“Welcome, Monsieur le Juge,” he said in the frank and cordial voice of a mountaineer; “what happy circumstance has procured me the honor of a visit?”

“Master Yeri,” replied the good man, “I am belated in your mountains.  Have you a vacant corner at your table and a bed at the disposition of a friend?”

“Ah!” cried the corporal, “if there were but one bed in the house, should it not be at the service of the best, the most honored of our ex-magistrates of Stantz?  Monsieur Seiler, what an honor you confer on Yeri Foerster’s humble home.”

“Christine, Christine!  Monsieur le Juge Zacharias Seiler wishes to sleep under our roof to-night.”

Then a little old woman, her face wrinkled like a vine leaf, but still fresh and laughing, her head crowned by a cap with wide black ribbons, appeared on the threshold and disappeared again, murmuring: 

“What?  Is it possible?  Monsieur le Juge!”

“My good people,” said Mr. Zacharias, “truly you do me too much honor—­I hope—­”

“Monsieur le Juge, if you forget the favors you have done to others, they remember them.”

Charlotte placed her basket on the table, feeling very proud at having been the means of bringing so distinguished a visitor to the house.  She took out the sugar, the coffee and all the little odds and ends of household provisions which she had purchased in the town.  And Zacharias, gazing at her pretty profile, felt himself agitated once more, his poor old heart beat more quickly in his bosom and seemed to say to him:  “This is love, Zacharias!  This is love!  This is love!”

To tell you the truth, my dear friends, Mr. Seiler spent the evening with the Head Forester, Yeri Foerster, perfectly oblivious to the fact of Therese’s uneasiness, to his promise to return before seven o’clock, to all his old habits of order and submission.

Picture to yourself the large room, the time-browned rafters of the ceiling, the windows opened on the silent valley, the round table in the middle of the room, covered with a white cloth, with red stripes running through it; the light from the lamp, bringing out more clearly the grave faces of Zacharias and Yeri, the rosy, laughing features of Charlotte, and Dame Christine’s little cap, with long fluttering streamers.  Picture to yourself the soup-tureen, with gayly-flowered bowl, from which arose an appetising odor, the dish of trout garnished with parsley, the plates filled with fruits and little meal cakes as yellow as gold; then worthy Father Zacharias, handing first one and then the other of the plates of fruit and cakes to Charlotte, who lowered her eyes, frightened at the old man’s compliments and tender speeches.

Yeri was quite puffed up at his praise, but Dame Christine said:  “Ah, Monsieur le Juge!  You are too good.  You do not know how much trouble this little girl gives us, or how headstrong she is when she wants anything.  You will spoil her with so many compliments.”