good cook
can do anything. Sainte Marthe entertained the blessed Lord in her own
home, and was the first nun of the sisterhood she founded. Moreover when
she was preaching at Aix a fearful dragon by the name of Tarasque
inhabited the river Rhone, and came out each night to devastate the
country until Sainte Marthe was the means of his--conversion."

"Oh, go on!" cried Helene, and Lescarbot sat down on the old bench
under the pear-tree and began to help with the herbs.

"Sainte Marthe was an excellent cook, and the first thing she did when
she founded her convent was to plant a kitchen-garden. On Saint John's
Eve she went into the garden and watered each plant with holy water,
blessing it in the use of God. People came from miles around to get
roots and seeds from the garden and to ask for Sainte Marthe's recipes
for broths and cordials for the sick. Often they brought roots of such
plants as rhubarb and--er--marigold, which had been imported from
heathen countries, to be blessed and made wholesome." Lescarbot's eye
rested on the potato plant, which he distrusted.

"Well. The dragon prowled around and around the convent walls, but of
course he could not come in. At last he pretended to be sick and sent
for Sainte Marthe to come and cure him. As soon as she set eyes on him
she knew what a wicked lie he had told, and resolved to punish him for
his impudence. Of course all he wanted of her was to get her recipes for
sauces and stews so that he might cook and eat his victims without
having indigestion--which is what a good sauce is for. Sainte Marthe
promised to make him some broth if he would do no harm while she was
gone, and just to make sure he kept his promise she made him hold out
his fore-paws and tied them hard and fast with her girdle, while he sat
with his fore-legs around his--er--knees, and her broomstick thrust
crosswise between. Then she got out her largest kettle and made a good
savory broth of all the herbs in her garden--there were three hundred
and sixty-five kinds. She knew that if he drank it all, the blessed
herbs would work such a change in his inside that he would be like a
lamb forever after.

"But one thing neither she nor Tarasque had thought of, and that was,
that the broth was hot. Of course he always took his food and drink very
cold. When he smelled its delicious fragrance he opened his mouth wide,
and she poured it hissing hot down his throat, and it melted him into a
famous bubbling spring