“There is no one to care for me,” said Hyacinthe.  And he even looked at the chisel in his hand, thinking that by a touch of that he might lose it all, and be at peace, somewhere, not far from God.  Only it was forbidden.  Then came the tears, and great sobs that shook him, so that he scarcely heard the gentle rattling of the latch.

He stumbled to the door, opening it on the still woods and the frosty stars.  And a lad who stood outside in the snow said, “I see you are working late, comrade.  May I come in?”

Hyacinthe brushed his ragged sleeve across his eyes and nodded “Yes.”  Those little villages strung along the great river see strange wayfarers at times.  And Hyacinthe said to himself that surely here was such a one.  Blinking into the stranger’s eyes, he lost for a flash the first impression of youth, and received one of incredible age or sadness.  But the wanderer’s eyes were only quiet, very quiet, like the little pools in the wood where the wild does went to drink.  As he turned within the door, smiling at Hyacinthe and shaking some snow from his cap, he did not seem to be more than sixteen or so.

“It is very cold outside,” he said.  “There is a big oak tree on the edge of the fields that had split in the frost and frightened all the little squirrels asleep there.  Next year it will make an even better home for them.  And see what I found close by!” He opened his fingers and showed Hyacinthe a little sparrow lying unruffled in the palm.

“Pauvrette!” said the dull Hyacinthe. “Pauvrette! Is it then dead?” He touched it with a gentle forefinger.

“No,” answered the strange boy, “it is not dead.  We will put it here among the shavings, not far from the lamp, and it will be well by the morning.”

He smiled at Hyacinthe again, and the shambling lad felt dimly as if the scent of the sandalwood were sweeter, and the lamp-flame clearer.  But the stranger’s eyes were only quiet, quiet.

“Have you come far?” asked Hyacinthe.  “It is a bad season for traveling, and the wolves are out.”

“A long way,” said the other.  “A long, long way.  I heard a child cry—­”

“There is no child here,” put in Hyacinthe.  “Monsieur L’Oreillard says children cost too much money.  But if you have come far, you must need food and fire, and I have neither.  At the Cinq Chateaux you will find both.”

The stranger looked at him again with those quiet eyes, and Hyacinthe fancied that his face was familiar.  “I will stay here,” he said; “you are late at work, and you are unhappy.”

“Why as to that,” answered Hyacinthe, rubbing his cheeks and ashamed of his tears, “most of are sad at one time or another, the good God knows.  Stay here and welcome if it pleases you; and you may take a share of my bed, though it is no more than a pile of balsam boughs and an old blanket in the loft.  But I must work at this cabinet, for the drawers must be finished and the handles put on and the corners carved, all by the holy morning; or my wages will be paid with a stick.”