our donkey
did not suit us, and we got the donkey-woman to let us have Marie in the
afternoon when her lessons were done. She liked that, and so did we; for
she seemed to understand the nature of donkeys, and could manage them
without so much beating and shouting as the boy thought necessary. Such
pleasant drives as we had, we two big women in the droll wagon, drawn by
the little gray donkey that looked as if made of an old trunk, so rusty
and rough was he as he went trotting along, his long ears wagging, and
his small hoofs clattering over the fine hard road, while Marie sat on
the shaft with a long whip, talking and laughing, and giving Andre a
poke now and then, crying 'E! E! houp la!' to make him go.

We found her a capital little guide and story-teller, for her
grandmother had told her all the tales and legends of the neighbourhood,
and it was very pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasant
French, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate sketched, I took notes,
and Marie held the big parasol over us.

Some of these stones were charming; at least as _she_ told them, with
her little face changing from gay to sad as she gesticulated most
dramatically.

The romance of 'Gilles de Bretagne' was one of her favourites. How he
carried off his child-wife when she was only twelve, how he was
imprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, and
would stand at his window crying, 'Bread, bread; for the love of God!'
yet no one dared to give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in the
night and gave him half her black loaf. Not once, but every night for
six months, though she robbed her children to do it. And when he was
dying, it was she who took a priest to him, that he might confess
through the bars of his cell.

'So good, ah, so good, this poor woman! It is beautiful to hear of that,
mademoiselle!' little Marie would say, with her black eyes full and her
lips trembling.

But the story she liked best of all was about the peasant girl and her
grandmother.

'See then, dear ladies, it was in this way. In the time of the great war
many poor people were shot because it was feared they would burn the
chateaus. In one of these so sad parties being driven to St. Malo to be
shot, was this young girl. Only fifteen, dear ladies, behold how young
is this! and see the brave thing she did! With her went the old
grandmother whom she loved next the good God. They went slowly, she was
so old, and one of the of