steep in zose parts. We come to one place, it
is steps--"

"Steps in the street?"

"Steps that make the street, but yes! and on them (white steps, clean!
ah! of a cleanness!), in the sun, sit the old women, and spin, and sing,
and tell stories. Ah! the fine steps. They, too, have caps, but they are
brown in the faces, and striped--"

"Striped, Mere-Marie? painted, do you mean?"

"She said the steps had caps!" whispered Petie, incredulous, but too
eager for the story to interrupt the teller.

"Painted? wat you mean of foolishness, _p'tit Jacques_? Ah! I was wrong!
not striped; wreenkled, you say? all up togezzer like a brown apple when
he is dry up,--like zis way!" and Mother Marie drew her pretty face all
together in a knot, and looked so comical that we went into fits of
laughter.

"So! zey sit, ze old women, and talk, talk, wiz ze heads together; but
one sit alone, away from those others, and she sing. Her voice go up,
thin, thin, like a little cold wind in ze boat-ropes.

"'Il etait trois mat'lots de Groix,
Il etait trois mat'lots de Groix,
Embarques sur le Saint Francois,
Tra la derira, la la la,
Tra la derira la laire!'[1]

"I make learn you that song, _petit Jacques_, one time! So we
come,--now, _mes enfants_, we come! and all the old women point the
nose, and say, 'Who is it comes there?' But that one old--but Mere
Jeanne, she cry out loud, loud. 'Marie! _petite Marie_, where hast thou
been so long, so long?' She opens the arms--I fall into zem, on my
knees; I cry--but hush, _p'tit Jacques_! I cry now only in ze story,
only--to--to show thee how it would be! I say, 'It is me, Marie, Mere
Jeanne! I come to show thee my little son, to take thy blessing. And my
little friend, too!'" She turned to pat Petie's head; she would not let
the motherless boy feel left out, even from a world in which he had no
part.

"My good friend Petie, whose mother is with the saints. Then Mere
Jeanne, she take all our hands, after she has her weep; she say 'Come!'
and we go up ze street, up, up, till we come to Mere Jeanne's house."

"Tell about the house!" I cried.

"Holy Cric! what a house!" cried Mere-Marie, clapping her hands
together. "It is stone, painted white, clean, like new cheese; the roof
beautiful, straw, warm, thick,--ah! what roofs! I have tried to teach
thy father to make them, but no! Inside, it is dark and warm, and full
wiz good smells. Now