knock,
as by example, if sometimes a little handcart is left on the road, I do
not suspect it--whack! bad for you, poor five-and-thirty, but this
is soon over. It is only when I get bewildered, as I did day before
yesterday. O then---"

"You have not told me of that, James," said Mr. Desgranges.

"I was, however, somewhat embarrassed, my dear friend. While I was here
the wind changed, I did not perceive it; but at the end of a quarter of
an hour, when I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, I had lost my way,
and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare to stir a step. You know
the plain, not a house, no passersby. I sat down on the ground, I
listened; after a moment I heard at, as I supposed, about two hundred
paces distant, a noise of running water. I said, 'If this should be the
stream which is at the bottom of the plain?' I went feeling along on the
side from which the noise came--I reached the stream; then I reasoned in
this way: the water comes down from the side of Noiesemont and crosses
it. I put in my hand to feel the current."

"Bravo, James."

"Yes, but the water was so low and the current so small, that my hand
felt nothing. I put in the end of my stick, it was not moved. I rubbed
my head finally, I said, 'I am a fool, here is my handkerchief;' I
took it, I fastened it to the end of my cane. Soon I felt that it moved
gently to the right, very gently. Noiesemont is on the right. I started
again and I get home to Juliana, who began to be uneasy."

"O," cried the young man, "this is admir----"

But Mr. Desgranges stopped him, and leading him to the other end of the
room,

"Silence!" said he to him in a low voice. "Not admirable--do not corrupt
by pride the simplicity of this man. Look at him, see how tranquil his
face is, how calm after this recital which has moved you so much. He is
ignorant of himself, do not spoil him."

"It is so touching," said the young man, in a low tone.

"Undoubtedly, and still his superiority does not lie there. A thousand
blind men have found out these ingenious resources, a thousand will find
them again; but this moral perfection--this heart, which opens itself
so readily to elevated consolations--this heart which so willingly takes
upon it the part of a victim--this heart which has restored him to
life. For do not be deceived, it is not I who have saved him, it is his
affection for me; his ardent gratitude has filled his whole soul, and
has sustained--he has lived because