s by _that man_,
as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?"

"I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that I
shall be grateful all my life."

"Is that all?"

"Little father," said the child, "I forgot to ask little Marie what I
promised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and I
will speak to my grandmother too."

The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conduct
to his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all the
while conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and so
decided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrust
his happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed on
the other is not a very pleasant position.

Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm,
and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts of
explanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before the
door, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content with
the result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow's
systematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he had
the time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at the
risk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head in
assent and answered: "You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be."
And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring back
little Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from the
insults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Maurice
nodded approvingly again and said: "You were not wrong, Germain; that
was right."

When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, the
old farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation,
and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:
"God's will be done. Love can't be made to order."

"Come to supper, Germain," said his mother-in-law. "It is unfortunate
that this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems that
God did not wish it. We must look elsewhere."

"Yes," added the old man, "as my wife says, we must look elsewhere."

There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, when
Petit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excited
by the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other little
peasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot e