The world seemed to
be a black place, full of suffering and despair.
"In all the world, I have no friend," said Hyacinthe, staring at the
flame of the lamp. "In all the world, there is no one to care whether
I live or die. In all the world, no place, no heart, no love. O kind
God, is there a place, a love for me in another world?"
I hope you feel very sorry for Hyacinthe, lonely, and cold, and shut
up in the workshop on the eve of Christmas. He was but an overgrown,
unhappy child. And I think with old Madame that for unhappy children,
at this season, no help seems too divine for faith.
"There is no one to care for me," said Hyacinthe. And he even looked
at the chisel in his hand, thinking that by a touch of that he might
lose it all, and be at peace, somewhere, not far from God. Only it was
forbidden. Then came the tears, and great sobs that shook him, so that
he scarcely heard the gentle rattling of the latch.
He stumbled to the door, opening it on the still woods and the frosty
stars. And a lad who stood outside in the snow said, "I see you are
working late, comrade. May I come in?"
Hyacinthe brushed his ragged sleeve across his eyes and nodded "Yes."
Those little villages strung along the great river see strange
wayfarers at times. And Hyacinthe said to himself that surely here was
such a one.
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