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He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until his face was a familiar one at the farm-house.
"When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening, 'Say, what is he like?'
"Did you not say it was a tiger that killed your son?
If there was time only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry words that put heart into one; and if there was time for more, then there was an installment of a story to be told, or some other thing one remembered afterward and sometimes lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think over.
