two lambs were missing. I always stood in the doorway
every evening to let them in one by one so that I could count them
easily. I went into the pen and tried to count them again. It was not
easy and I had to give it up at last, for every time I counted them
again I made their number more than there really were. At last I made
up my mind that I must have counted them wrong the first time, and I
did not say anything to anybody.

Next morning when I let them out I counted them once more. There
really were two missing. I felt very uneasy. All day long I hunted
about the fields for them, and in the evening, when I was quite certain
that they were missing, I told the farmer's wife. We searched high and
low for those lambs for several days, but we could not find them. The
farmer first, and then his wife took me apart, and tried to make me
confess that men had come and taken the lambs away. They promised me
that I should not be scolded if I would tell the truth. It was no good
my saying that I really did not know what had become of them, I could
see that they did not believe me.

After this I was frightened when I went into the fields because I knew
now that there were men who hid themselves and came and stole the
sheep. I was always thinking that I saw some one moving about behind
the bushes. I very soon learned to count my lambs by glancing at them,
and whether they were all together or scattered about, I knew in a
minute whether all of them were there.

Autumn came and I began to feel unhappy. I missed Sister Marie-Aimee.
I longed so to see her that I used to shut my eyes and believe that she
was coming up the path. When I did this I could really hear her steps
and the rustling of her dress on the grass. When I felt her quite
close to me I opened my eyes and she disappeared at once. For a long
time I had the idea of writing to her, but I did not dare to ask for
pen and paper. The farmer's wife did not know how to write, and nobody
at the farm ever got any letters. I plucked up courage one day and
asked Master Silvain if he would take me to town with him that morning.
He didn't answer at once. His big quiet eyes rested on me for a time,
and then he said that a shepherdess ought never to leave her flock. He
said that he didn't mind taking me to mass in the village now and then,
but that I must not expect him to take me to the town. This answer
quite stunned me. It was as though I had learned of