“Oh, mother,” rejoined Agricola, trying to change a conversation which had now become disagreeable for the sempstress, “for the wife of a horse grenadier of the Imperial Guard, you have not much courage.  Oh, my brave father; I can’t believe he is really coming!  The very thought turns me topsy-turvy!”

“Heaven grant he may come,” said Frances, with a sigh.

“God grant it, mother.  He will grant it, I should think.  Lord knows, you have had masses enough said for his return.”

“Agricola, my child,” said Frances, interrupting her son, and shaking her head sadly, “do not speak in that way.  Besides, you are talking of your father.”

“Well, I’m in for it this evening.  ’Tis your turn now; positively, I am growing stupid, or going crazy.  Forgive me, mother! forgive!  That’s the only word I can get out to-night.  You know that, when I do let out on certain subjects, it is because I can’t help it; for I know well the pain it gives you.”

“You do not offend me, my poor, dear, misguided boy.”

“It comes to the same thing; and there is nothing so bad as to offend one’s mother; and, with respect to what I said about father’s return, I do not see that we have any cause to doubt it.”

“But we have not heard from him for four months.”

“You know, mother, in his letter—­that is, in the letter which he dictated (for you remember that, with the candor of an old soldier, he told us that, if he could read tolerably well, he could not write); well, in that letter he said we were not to be anxious about him; that he expected to be in Paris about the end of January, and would send us word, three or four days before, by what road he expected to arrive, that I might go and meet him.”

“True, my child; and February is come, and no news yet.”

“The greater reason why we should wait patiently.  But I’ll tell you more:  I should not be surprised if our good Gabriel were to come back about the same time.  His last letter from America makes me hope so.  What pleasure, mother, should all the family be together!”

“Oh, yes, my child!  It would be a happy day for me.”

“And that day will soon come, trust me.”

“Do you remember your father, Agricola?” inquired Mother Bunch.

“To tell the truth, I remember most his great grenadier’s shako and moustache, which used to frighten me so, that nothing but the red ribbon of his cross of honor, on the white facings of his uniform, and the shining handle of his sabre, could pacify me; could it, mother?  But what is the matter?  You are weeping!”

“Alas! poor Baudoin!  What he must suffer at being separated from us at his age—­sixty and past!  Alas! my child, my heart breaks, when I think that he comes home only to change one kind of poverty for another.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alas!  I earn nothing now.”