Sometimes it is Monsieur le Cure, peacefully conning his "Hours," as
with slow and thoughtful step he paces round and round. I can now read
his calm, benevolent face by the light of half a century's experience of
life, and have learned to love that still, black, meditative aspect
which I found so antipathetic as a small boy--_he_ is no burner alive of
little heretics! This world is big enough for us both--and so is the
world to come! And he knows it. Now, at all events!
[Illustration: "THIS WORLD IS BIG ENOUGH FOR US BOTH"]
Sometimes even a couple of Prendergasts are admitted, or even three;
they are not so bad, after all; they have the qualities of their faults,
although you might not think it.
But very often the old beloved shades arrive with their fishing-nets,
and their high spirits, and their ringing Anglo-French--Charlie, and
Alfred, and Madge, and the rest, and the grinning, barking, gyrating
Medor, who dives after stones.
Oh, how it does my heart good to see and hear them!
They make me feel like a grandfather. Even Monsieur le Major is younger
than I--his mustache less white than mine. He only comes to my chin; but
I look up to him still, and love and revere him as when I was a
little child.
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