Alice found some relief from
her trouble in going from cabin to cabin and waiting upon the
sufferers; but even here Farnsworth could not be got rid of; he
followed her night and day. Never was a good soldier, for he was
that from head to foot, more lovelorn and love-docile. The maiden
had completely subdued the man.
About this time, deep in a rainy and pitch-black night, Gaspard
Roussillon came home. He tapped on the door again and again. Alice
heard, but she hesitated to speak or move. Was she growing
cowardly? Her heart beat like a drum. There was but one person in
all the world that she could think of--it was not M. Roussillon.
Ah, no, she had well-nigh forgotten her gigantic foster father.
"It is I, ma cherie, it is Gaspard, my love, open the door," came
in a booming half-whisper from without. "Alice, Jean, it is your
Papa Roussillon, my dears. Let me in."
Alice was at the door in a minute, unbarring it. M. Roussillon
entered, armed to the teeth, the water dribbling from his buckskin
clothes.
"Pouf!" he exclaimed, "my throat is like dust." His thoughts were
diving into the stores under the floor. "I am famished. Dear
children, dear little ones! They are glad to see papa! Where is
your mama?"
He had Alice in his arms and Jean clung to his legs. Madame
Roussillon, to be sure of no mistake, lighted a lamp with a brand
that smoldered on the hearth and held it up, then, satisfied as to
her husband's identity, set it on a shelf and flung herself into
the affectionate group with clumsy abandon, making a great noise.
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