The House by Henry Bordeaux

ALL night a high wind had been blowing, but by morning it had fallen. October was coming in badly. After breakfast I went out to see what damage the storm had wrought. Autumn had come suddenly. In the woods the oak leaves and beech leaves, leaves red and golden, torn from the trees where they had been glowing like flowers, rustled under my tread, and as in old times when I was little and used to steal out to gather forbidden nuts and crack them afterwards on the fire dogs, I let my feet drag, delighting in their crisp and plaintive chime.

Returning at nightfall I saw a cart standing before the door of the chalet. The headlight was not lighted and it was growing dark, so that I did not perceive till I was close by that it was our farmer's cart. The horse had not been taken out, but no one was watching it, though some one had taken the precaution to put a blanket over its back.

"Well, Stephen," said I, entering the kitchen where the farmer was warming himself, for it was already cold on the mountains, "what brings you here?"

We always called him by his first name, as is the custom in our country, although he was already old. His hands were outstretched toward the stove, but he turned his wrinkled, shaven face toward me, the lamp, that moment lighted, revealing it clearly to me.

His light eyes, faded through long service in all weathers, seemed not to see me clearly.

"Ah, Master Francis," he murmured low, as he rose.

I can not tell why, but the meaningless exclamation gave me a painful impression.

"You haven't come for us? " I asked.

He was about to reply when we were joined by my sister Louise, who had been told of his arrival. She greeted him in a friendly way and asked what news he brought from town. He seemed in no haste to reply.

"The news is," he said at last, "that Madame wants you."

"Madame? " asked Louise.

"Very well," I observed, "and how soon?"

"To be sure it is too late for you to go down to-night. The beast is tired and it is already dark. To-morrow morning, very early."

Why such haste? We should hardly have time for our packing. I was about to protest, but the farmer slipped away -- he must put out the horse, and get the cart under cover. During his absence I protested against so hurried a departure. In fact the prospect of quitting this place filled me with sadness, and I again lived through the sense of desolation which had come over me in the wood, strewn with the dead leaves. Louise paid no attention and I saw that she was crying. Was she so sorry to go?

"I am afraid," she said to me.

Afraid of what? Grandfather, being informed of our recall, showed as little enthusiasm as I.

"We weren't so badly off here," he said. "We could do as we chose."

As if he hadn't always done as he chose! But what was Louise afraid of? By degrees she told us. For the farmer to be sent for us, there must be some one sick at our house, some one gravely ill. He had said "Madame has sent for you. " Then it wasn't mamma, it could be no one but father. This was what she conjectured, as she confessed to us.

We tried to smile at her fears, comparing her to Abbé Heurtevant who carried thunder about with him and set it off at the least provocation; but by degrees her fear became ours. We waited feverishly for the return of the farmer whom we at once questioned. It was Louise who spoke.

"Father is sick, isn't he, Stephen?"