with a light
and peaceful heart, and sang psalms to the spiritual ear as I advanced.

Suddenly up came an old woman, who point-blank demanded alms.

"Good," thought I; "here comes the waiter with the bill."

And I paid for my night's lodging on the spot. Take it how you please,
but this was the first and the last beggar that I met with during all my
tour.

A step or two farther I was overtaken by an old man in a brown nightcap,
clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with a faint excited smile. A little girl
followed him, driving two sheep and a goat; but she kept in our wake,
while the old man walked beside me and talked about the morning and the
valley. It was not much past six; and for healthy people who have slept
enough that is an hour of expansion and of open and trustful talk.

"_Connaissez-vous le Seigneur?_" he said at length.

I asked him what Seigneur he meant; but he only repeated the question
with more emphasis and a look in his eyes denoting hope and interest.

"Ah," said I, pointing upwards, "I understand you now. Yes, I know Him;
He is the best of acquaintances."

The old man said he was delighted. "Hold," he added, striking his bosom;
"it makes me happy here." There were a few who knew the Lord in these
valleys, he went on to tell me; not many, but a few. "Many are called,"
he quoted, "and few chosen."

"My father," said I, "it is not easy to say who know the Lord; and it
is none of our business. Protestants and Catholics, and even those who
worship stones, may know Him and be known by Him; for He has made all."

I did not know I was so good a preacher.

The old man assured me he thought as I did, and repeated his expressions
of pleasure at meeting me. "We are so few," he said. "They call us
Moravians here; but down in the Department of Gard, where there are also
a good number, they are called Derbists, after an English pastor."

I began to understand that I was figuring, in questionable taste, as a
member of some sect to me unknown; but I was more pleased with the
pleasure of my companion than embarrassed by my own equivocal position.
Indeed, I can see no dishonesty in not avowing a difference; and
especially in these high matters, where we have all a sufficient
assurance that, whoever may be in the wrong, we ourselves are not
completely in the right. The truth is much talked about; but this old
man in a brown nightcap showed himself so simple, sweet and friendly,
that I am not unwilling to profess m