verything that had
been running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers,
and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germain
plunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became so
absent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke to
little Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked him
in what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not a
moment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He dared
not ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yet
he knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; and
Mother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood never
grew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although she
had left it almost empty at night It was the same with the wheat and
potatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack on
the floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. The
widow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise to
tell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performed
at her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident that
the devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrel
with him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the house. It would
be time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul in
return for his gifts.

Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak to
Germain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and,
before him, she pretended to perceive nothing.

XV -- Mother Maurice

ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoke
to him kindly:

"My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well as
usual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, or
all of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishing
it."

"No, my mother," answered Germain, "you have always been as kind to
me as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be very
ungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybody
in the household."

"Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes back
to you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse,
and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary for
you to marry again."

"Yes, my