Blinking into the stranger's eyes, he lost for a flash the
first impression of youth, and received one of incredible age or
sadness. But the wanderer's eyes were only quiet, very quiet, like
the little pools in the wood where the wild does went to drink. As he
turned within the door, smiling at Hyacinthe and shaking some snow
from his cap, he did not seem to be more than sixteen or so.
"It is very cold outside," he said. "There is a big oak tree on the
edge of the fields that had split in the frost and frightened all the
little squirrels asleep there. Next year it will make an even better
home for them. And see what I found close by!" He opened his fingers
and showed Hyacinthe a little sparrow lying unruffled in the palm.
"_Pauvrette!_" said the dull Hyacinthe. "_Pauvrette!_ Is it then
dead?" He touched it with a gentle forefinger.
"No," answered the strange boy, "it is not dead. We will put it here
among the shavings, not far from the lamp, and it will be well by the
morning."
He smiled at Hyacinthe again, and the shambling lad felt dimly as if
the scent of the sandalwood were sweeter, and the lamp-flame clearer.
But the stranger's eyes were only quiet, quiet.
"Have you come far?" asked Hyacinthe. "It is a bad season for
traveling, and the wolves are out."
"A long way," said the other.
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