rtion
of the Gulf where the frequent passage of the fishermen had to a degree
leveled the snow, and ascended with much difficulty a hill covered by
trees at least a hundred years old. At the extremity of this forest, the
postillion turned toward the traveler, and with his finger pointed out to
him a spot so distant that it could be distinguished with difficulty.
"_Aland!_" said he; and with his voice and gestures he encouraged his
horses, who doubled their ardor, as if they comprehended that this was
the last effort which would be required of them before they reached their
destination.

The sleigh soon halted at the foot of a vast wooden house. When the
driver cracked his whip, when the sound of the bells was heard, the door
opened, and the stranger, it was evident to see, was expected. A servant
advanced to meet him, with a lantern in his hand, and led him through a
long corridor, introducing him into a room where a man with gray hair sat
in an arm-chair.

"My uncle!" said the traveler, rushing toward him.

"Ireneus, my dear child!" said the old man. They stood in silence,
clasped in each other's arms, until the old man, taking the young one by
the hand, led him to a table on which two lights were burning, looked at
him with complaisance, and said, "It is indeed yourself--it is the
likeness of my poor brother: the same eyes, the same proud and resolute
air. You look as he did thirty years ago, when he was about to cast
himself amid the dangers of war; when, unfortunately, he embraced me for
the last time."

"My dear uncle," said Ireneus, "instead of the brother you have lost, a
son comes to you. In my early youth, my mother taught me to love you.
That duty I shall be glad to discharge."

"The very sound of his voice!" continued the old man, who still looked at
him; "the very sparkle of his eye! No painter could have made a more
exact portrait. May you, however, have a far different destiny. Fatality
weighs on the family of Vermondans. May you, the only vigorous offshoot
of that old race of soldiers, already stricken by misfortune, already an
exile from your country, never learn, as your father and I did, how
bitter is the bread of the stranger--how difficult it is to go up and
down the stranger's staircase. But what do I say? You are in another
father's house. You come to it like a long-expected child, and you meet
with two sisters." Then going toward the door of another room, he said,
"Ebba, Alete, come to welco