t of
roguery, saying in her simple way,--

'Yes; it was so droll to go running about _en chemise_, like the girl in
the tale of the 'Midsummer Eve,' where she pulls the Saint Johns-wort
flower, and has her wish to hear all the creatures talk. I liked it
much, and Yvon slept so like the dormouse that he never heard me creep
in and out. It was hard to bring much water, but the poor cabbages were
_so_ glad, and Mother Lobineau felt that all had not forgotten her.

We took care that little Saint Marie was not forgotten, but quite well,
and all ready for her confirmation when the day came. This is a pretty
sight, and for her sake we went to the old church of St. Sauveur to see
it. It was a bright spring day, and the gardens were full of early
flowers, the quaint streets gay with proud fathers and mothers in
holiday dress, and flocks of strangers pausing to see the long
procession of little girls with white caps and veils, gloves and gowns,
prayer-books and rosaries, winding through the sunny square into the
shadowy church with chanting and candles, garlands and crosses.

The old priest was too ill to perform the service, but the young one who
took his place announced, after it was over, that if they would pass the
house the good old man would bless them from his balcony. That was the
best of all, and a sweet sight, as the feeble fatherly old priest leaned
from his easy-chair to stretch his trembling hands over the little flock
so like a bed of snowdrops, while the bright eyes and rosy faces looked
reverently up at him, and the fresh voices chanted the responses as the
curly heads under the long veils bowed and passed by.

We learned afterwards that our Marie had been called in and praised for
her secret charity--a great honour, because the good priest was much
beloved by all his flock, and took a most paternal interest in the
little ones.

That was almost the last we saw of our little friend, for we left Dinan
soon after, bidding the Lehon family good-bye, and leaving certain warm
souvenirs for winter-time. Marie cried and clung to us at parting, then
smiled like an April day, and waved her hand as we went away, never
expecting to see her any more.

But the next morning, just as we were stepping on board the steamer to
go down the Rance to St. Malo, we saw a little white cap come bobbing
through the market-place, down the steep street, and presently Marie
appeared with two great bunches of pale yellow primroses and wil