“And do you think we shall be at Paris in time?”

“I hope so; still, if you are strong enough, we must sometimes make forced marches—­for, if we only travel our five leagues a day, and that without accident, we shall scarcely reach Paris until the beginning of February, and it is better to be a little beforehand.”

“But as father is in—­India, and condemned to death if he return to France, when shall we see him?”

“And where shall we see him?”

“Poor children! there are so many things you have yet to learn.  When the traveller quitted him, the general could not return to France, but now he can do so.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the Bourbons, who had banished him, were themselves turned out last year.  The news must reach India, and your father will certainly come to meet you at Paris, because he expects that you and your mother will be there on the 13th of next February.”

“Ah! now I understand how we may hope to see him,” said Rose with a sigh.

“Do you know the name of this traveller, Dagobert?”

“No, my children; but whether called Jack or John, he is a good sort.  When he left your mother, she thanked him with tears for all his kindness and devotion to the general, herself, and the children; but he pressed her hands in his, and said to her, in so gentle a voice that I could not help being touched by it:  ’Why do you thank me?  Did He not Say—­love ye one another!’”

“Who is that, Dagobert?”

“Yes, of whom did the traveller speak?”

“I know nothing about it; only the manner in which he pronounced those words struck me, and they were the last he spoke.”

“Love one another!” repeated Rose, thoughtfully.

“How beautiful are those words!” added Blanche.

“And whither was the traveller going?”

“Far, very far into the North, as he told your mother.  When she saw him depart, she said to me:  ’His mild, sad talk has affected me even to tears; whilst I listened to him, I seemed to be growing better—­I seemed to love my husband and my children more—­and yet, to judge by the expression of his countenance, one would think that this stranger had never either smiled or wept!’ She and I watched him from the door as long as we could follow him with our eyes; he carried his head down, and his walk was slow, calm, and firm; one might fancy that he counted his steps.  And, talking of steps, I remarked yet another thing.”

“What was it, Dagobert?”

“You know that the road which led to our house way, always damp, because of the overflowing of the little spring.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, the mark of the traveller’s footsteps remained in the clay, and I saw that he had nails under his shoe in the form of a cross.”

“How in the form of a cross?”

“Look!” said Dagobert, placing the tip of his finger seven times on the coverlet of the bed; “they were arrange:  thus beneath his heel:”