Then his old eyes stared vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is
cast back many, many years into the past. The missive was from
beyond the sea--he knew the handwriting--a waft of the flowers of
Avignon seemed to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his
grasp.

A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a
kid following. He was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats at
a lively trot.

"Bon jour, Pere Beret," he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly
on.

"Ah, ah; his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo," thought
the old priest, returning the salutation; "his throat aches for
the liquor,--the poor man."

Then he read again the letter's superscription and made a
faltering move, as if to break the seal. His hands trembled
violently, his face looked gray and drawn.

"Come on, you brutes," cried the receding man, jerking the thongs
of skin by which he led the goats.

Father Beret rose and turned into his damp little hut, where the
light was dim on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against
the clay-daubed wall. It was a bare, unsightly, clammy room; a
rude bed on one side, a shelf for table and two or three wooden
stools constituting the furniture, while the uneven puncheons of
the floor wabbled and clattered under the priest's feet.