come here, your father would kill him."

"And would you kill him, too, little Marie?"

"We would all kill him, for you would help us, my Pierre, wouldn't you?
You're not afraid, I know. You would hit him hard!"

"Yes, yes," said the child, proudly, assuming a heroic attitude, "we
would kill 'em."

"There's no one like you for talking to children," said Germain to
little Marie, "and for making them hear reason. To be sure, it isn't
long since you were a child yourself, and you remember what your mother
used to say to you. I believe that the younger one is, the better one
understands the young. I am very much afraid that a woman of thirty,
who doesn't know what it is to be a mother, will find it hard to learn
to prattle and reason with young brats."

"Why so, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this
woman; you'll get over it!"

"To the devil with the woman!" said Germain. "I would like to go home
and never come back here. What do I need of a woman I don't know!"

"Little father," said the child, "why do you keep talking about your
wife to-day, when she is dead?"

"Alas! you haven't forgotten your poor dear mother, have you?"

"No, for I saw them put her in a pretty box of white wood, and my
grandma took me to her to kiss her and bid her good-by!--She was all
white and cold, and every night my aunt tells me to pray to the good
Lord to let her get warm with Him in heaven. Do you think she's there
now?"

"I hope so, my child; but you must keep on praying: that shows your
mother that you love her."

"I am going to say my prayer," replied the child; "I did not think of
saying it this evening. But I can't say it all by myself; I always
forget something. Little Marie must help me."

"Yes, Pierre, I will help you," said the girl. "Come, kneel here by my
side."

The child knelt on the girl's skirt, clasped his little hands, and began
to repeat his prayer with interest and fervently at first, for he knew
the beginning very well; then more slowly and hesitatingly, and at last
repeating word for word what Marie dictated to him, when he reached that
point in his petition beyond which he had never been able to learn, as
he always fell asleep just there every night. On this occasion, the
labor of paying attention and the monotony of his own tones produced
their customary effect, so that he pronounced the last syllables only
with great effort, and after they had been repeated three times; his
head grew