“ ’Tis a sharp biting wind!” said he; “I wonder, what detains my boys so long! Monsieur, I shall show you two of the finest lads that ever stepped in shoe of leather. The eldest is three and twenty, the second a year younger: their equals for sense, courage, and activity, are not to be found within fifty miles of Strasbourg. Would they were back again! I begin to feel uneasy about them.”

Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth.

“And are you equally anxious for the return of your sons?” said I to her.

“Not I!” she replied peevishly; “They are no children of mine.”

“Come! Come, Marguerite!” said the husband; “Do not be out of humour with the gentleman for asking a simple question. Had you not looked so cross, he would never have thought you old enough to have a son of three and twenty: but you see how many years ill-temper adds to you!⁠—Excuse my wife’s rudeness, Monsieur. A little thing puts her out, and she is somewhat displeased at your not thinking her to be under thirty. That is the truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, Monsieur, that age is always a ticklish subject with a woman. Come! come! Marguerite, clear up a little. If you have not sons as old, you will some twenty years hence, and I hope, that we shall live to see them just such lads as Jacques and Robert.”

Marguerite clasped her hands together passionately.