"You asked me, my dear Jean François, what I would do were I Monsieur l'Abbé Picot and heard the call of Pan?"
"A call to the beautiful, the wholesome, the healthful for body and mind and soul, where I might meet my fellows and become their friend? Where I could and would at times bring gentleness and love into their lives? Where I should meet children and make them see? Women and teach them the value of life?... A road like that, my friend?"
"Yes, I think it is that kind of a road."
"Well, Jean François," she said as she arose and gave him her hand for good night, "I would listen to Pan. I would take my pack and the long, splendid open road. I'd become the happy pedler. A pedler, I should say, if I were Monsieur l'Abbé Jacques Picot, of little joys for troubled hearts, heartsease for the sad, elfish tales for romping children, merry songs for lovers, and an exceeding great love for all of them.... That is as I should do, my friend.... Good night," and she was gone.
Jean François sat with his face hidden in his hands. He prayed a little, wept a little, and laughed between his praying and his weeping.
For once the morning road was disturbed. Its happiness was feigned. The sun lay just as warm upon the field as the week before. The air was quite as soft, as scented, as full of the freshness of spring. The river was fully as beautiful as of old as it flowed lazily by with glorious sunlit waters. Yet, withal, happiness seemed to have fled.
If you had been upon a journey at this time on the way west from Oldmeadow, known as the river road, you would have met two travelers afoot following a horse and van. As you approached them it would easily be noticed that they were playfully chattering in an apparent abundance of spirits. Their greeting would have been one of marked good cheer. You would have felt singled out for their especial attention. Then, after passing, should you have turned to look at the strange, grotesque figure of the man whom you had already marked as an extraordinary person, and at the genuine easy grace and beauty of the girl, whose startled, wistful face you had seen a moment before, there would have been awakened within you a sense of pity. A picturesque group you would have said, whose air of frivolity seemed but a masque beneath the veneer of which lay sorrow. You would have been right.... The road which one stumbles and falters along in the heart is not always so smooth and alluring as the road at one's feet. For once the great highway had lost its charm.... So, as you passed from hearing, there was a distinct note of sadness in the merry-tuned song which they joined their voices in singing.