"‘Sorrowful is the little house,
The little house by the winding stream;
All the laughter has died away
Out of the little house.
But down there come from the lofty hills
Footsteps and eyes agleam,
Bringing the laughter of yesterday
Into the little house,
By the winding stream and the hills.
Di ron, di ron, di ron, di ron-don!’"
The Little Chemist blushed faintly at the silence that followed his timid, quaint recital. The Curé looked calm and kind, and drawn away as if in thought; but Medallion presently got up, stooped, and laid his long fingers on the shoulder of the apothecary.
"Exactly, little man," he said; "we’ve both got the same idea in our heads. I’ve put it hard fact, you’ve put it soft sentiment; and it’s God’s truth either way."
Presently the Curé asked, as if from a great distance, so meditative was his voice: "Who will be the woman, Medallion?"
"I’ve got one in my eye—the very right one for our Avocat; not here, not out of Pontiac, but from St. Jean in the hills—fulfilling your verses, gentle apothecary. She must bring what is fresh—he must feel that the hills have come to him, she that the valley is hers for the first time. A new world for them both. Ha!"
"Regardez ça! you are a great man," said the Little Chemist.
There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind priest’s eyes. The Avocat had confessed to him in his time.
Medallion took up his hat.
"Where are you going?" said the Little Chemist.
