tears; but I called in my heart. Yet the storm and the dark stay, and my father does not come."
"Let us be patient, my Fanchon."
"He went to guide the priest across the hills. Why does not God guide him back?"
"My Fanchon, let us be patient."
"The priest was young, and my father has grey hair."
"Wilt thou not be patient, my child?"
"He filled the knapsack of the priest with food better than his own, and—thou didst not see it—put money in his hand."
"My own, the storm may pass."
"He told the priest to think upon our home as a little nest God set up here for such as he."
"There are places of shelter in the hills for thy father, my Fanchon."
"And when the priest prayed, ‘That Thou mayst bring us safely to this place where we would go,’ my father said so softly, ‘We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!’"
"My Fanchon, thy father hath gone this trail many times."
"The prayer was for the out-trail, not the in-trail, my mother."
"Nay, I do not understand thee."
"A swarm of bees came singing through the room last night, my mother. It was dark and I could not see, but there was a sweet smell, and I heard the voices."
"My child, thou art tired with watching, and thy mind is full of fancies. Thou must sleep."
"I am tired of watching. Through the singing of the bees as they passed over my bed, I heard my father’s
