"Try and see the caldron in which our fortune is cooking. You will tell
me how it is done."
Off the two women started; a large, kind mother's heart full of tender
love, and a sparrow's little gizzard, narrow and dry, without enough
room in it for one pure tear. For a moment Sylvestre Ker stood on the
threshold of the open door to watch them depart. On the gleaming white
snow their two shadows fell--the one bent and already tottering, the
other erect, flexible, and each step seemed a bound. The young lover
sighed. Behind him, in a low voice, Pol Bihan said,--
"Ker, my comrade, I know what you are thinking about, and you are right
to think so; this must come to an end. She is as impatient as you are,
for her love equals yours; for both of you it is too long to wait."
Sylvestre Ker turned pale with joy.
"Do you speak truth?" he stammered. "Am I fortunate enough to be loved
by her?"
"Yes, on my faith!" replied Pol Bihan; "she loves you too well for her
own peace. When a girl laughs too much, it is to keep from
weeping,--that's the real truth."