Converse came close, put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and studied him with intent regard.  “My boy,” he said, “go along—­and God go with you!”

Bristol tore his hand from the lawyer’s clasp and hurried away.

But at the Trelawny he did not find the Kilgours’ name on the directory board.  The elevator man, the janitor, the manager, told him the same story with the same indifference.  The Kilgours had sold their possessions and had removed—­they had left no address.

Bristol walked the streets and cursed the stilted folly that had made his farewell to her a parting in which he had pledged nothing, had promised nothing, had left no hopes for the future.  He was not consoled by the thought that his farewell to her had been for her own sake, as he had viewed his situation.  In the depths of his despair, when he had released her hand at the little gate, he had grimly sacrificed himself—­had resolved to save her from himself by final and complete separation.

And thinking of that parting at the little gate, hardly realizing where his wanderings led him, he went down to the great mills which were dark and silent under the shadows of the evening.

Old Etienne had brought a lamp from Mother Maillet’s kitchen and had set it on the stoop.  He was whittling, and a little boy snuggled close, fixing intent regard on the work.

The evening was bland after a balmy day of Indian summer.

Bristol stopped at the fence and called greeting.

The old man peered anxiously, shielding his eyes from the light of the lamp.

“M’sieu’!  M’sieu’!” He stammered, brokenly, gasping as he spoke the words.  His wrinkled face worked as if he were trying to keep back the tears.  His voice choked.

“You are surprised to see me back here, Etienne—­is that it?”

“I am not surprised, m’sieu’.  I knew you would come back.  I am glad—­that’s why the tear come up in my eye.  I cannot help that.”

“You are working late, Uncle Etienne.”

“Oui, the odders are gone home.  But this leetle boy—­I take care till his modder come from the shop.  But you shall come in here, m’sieu’.”

“I cannot stop, Etienne.  I am—­” He could not finish the sentence.  He turned to go.

“I say you shall come in.  You must come queeck!” The old man spoke in a shrill whisper.  He put aside his knife and stick and hurried to the fence.  He reached and caught Bristol’s sleeve.  “Ba gar!” he declared, with as much impatience as anybody had ever heard in the tone of Etienne Provancher, “even the poor habitant boy in the Tadousac country know better how to love the nice girl as what you do, M’sieu’ Farr.”

“My name is not Farr; it is—­”

“I don’t care what your name be,” snapped the old man.  “Tell me that some odder time.  It’s what you be—­that’s what I care!  And you don’t be good to nice girl.”

“I don’t understand.”