Finally one evening just as
we were finishing the dishes, there came two hesitating knocks on the outer
door.
"I wonder who can be calling at this hour," said Rosa.
"It sounds like some child that can't knock very well," said Catalina.
"Open the door, Lisita!"
Only too glad to abandon my towel, I ran to open the door, but hardly had I
done so when I remained petrified and dumb with surprise, hardly able to
believe my own eyes. There stood the Breton twisting his battered cap
nervously between his bony fingers. The little oil lamp, which we always
kept lighted at night in the passageway, illuminated his pale face and
gaunt figure.
"Good evening, mademoiselle," he finally managed to say, and then he
stopped, apparently as embarrassed as I was.
"Who it is?" said Teresa, as she started to come to my rescue.
"It's the Breton," I said.
"Well, tell him to come in," said the old woman kindly.
As timidly as a child the Breton advanced over the threshold a few paces,
looking about him in a kind of "lost" way until his eyes encountered Paula,
and then he seemed to recover his ease of mind.
"I wish to speak with the Master," he said--directing his words to Teresa.
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