Laura Richards
Honor Bright

CHAPTER X
COURTSHIP AND CASTLE-BUILDING

There was a spare pair of crutches, it appeared; Zitli himself had made them, “in case!” he said with a shrug. If it was good to have one pair, it was better to have two; as now, for example, behold!

For next day, the ankle was so greatly better that Honor could keep still no longer, she declared. The crutches were brought, and fitted to a marvel; she hobbled about gayly, delighted to be in motion again. Never in her life had she been still for so long a time.

“Zitli, I’ll race you to the barn!” she cried.

Zitli kindled responsive; but Gretli vetoed the proposition with massive calm.

“With respect, nothing of the kind!

“‘He who goes slowly, goes safe and fair;

He who goes hastily goes to despair.’

It is a proverb, mademoiselle. Well I should look facing my Ladies and telling them that you had injured yourself again racing to the barn on crutches. Besides which, there are other ways of getting there.”

Without more ado, she whipped up Honor, laughing and protesting, in her arms, marched across the green and through the barnyard, and deposited her on a block of wood that did duty for a stool. It stood in the doorway of the wide, low building. Sitting there, one had a new view, no less beautiful than that from the châlet; moreover, one got the full benefit of the châlet itself, with its wide spreading eaves, its thatched roof, with big stones here and there to keep it in place when the winter storms blew; its shining windows and green-painted door.

“Oh, how pretty!” cried Honor, in delight. “Oh, how lovely pretty! Why aren’t all houses built so, I wonder, instead of tall and ugly, with horrid laddery stairs?”

“It would appear that people know no better!” said Zitli, who had followed on his crutches and now seated himself in the doorway beside her. “I have heard that only in our blessed country are châlets to be found; and even here, in our cities, the houses are otherwise, to one’s sorrow and shame. It is thus one should live!” he added, with a nod of conviction. “A staircase, that is more suitable for monkeys than for men, hein? The barn is pleasant also, to my mind. Mademoiselle finds it not otherwise, I trust?”

Honor nodded emphatically, glancing around her at the low white-washed walls, at the fragrant trusses of hay and the shining pile of straw in the corner. A carpenter’s bench stood on one side, with tools ranged in precise order; on the other were the empty stalls where the cows spent their peaceful winters.

“It is perfectly delightful!” she said. “It is one of the dearest places I ever saw. Atli must be a very good farmer, isn’t he, Zitli?”

Now it was Zitli who nodded, like a very mandarin.

“There is no such farm on this Alp,” he said; “none better in this canton. Our herd is one of the first in the Book. Also our cheeses lead the way,” he added proudly, “but for those our Gretli is to thank. She also is a wonder, nor are we the only ones who think so. Ask Big Pierre; and there are others!” Zitli waved his hand with a sweeping gesture which seemed to include multitudes.

“Who is Big Pierre, Zitli?”

“Gretli’s bachelor, who else? I preferred another, Jacques the hunter, but he saw a white chamois and died within the year. In any case Gretli would have had none of him, because his nose was long. The longer the nose, the better the wit, I told her, but she would not listen. And Pierre is a good fellow, not too stupid. Mademoiselle will see for herself; yesterday was Atli’s day, to-day is Gretli’s. Love, that makes a great deal of trouble, hein?”

Both! they were both engaged, the great splendid Twins! They would both marry, and the lame boy would be left alone. Alone on the Alps! Oh! Honor’s heart beat quickly; dream-threads began to flash through her mind, weaving a fantastic pattern. To be his sister, to keep house for him here, make the cheese, be in very truth a sennerin. In a thought she saw herself in full Swiss costume, moulding perfect cheeses with exquisite grace. She could do it all, and take care of Zitli beside; she was very strong, if not very big. The Brother and Sister; one in heart, though not in blood; how lovely!

“What – what will you do when they are both married, Zitli?” Honor spoke slowly; her eyes were shining as they did when she saw visions.

“Me?” Zitli gave his quaint shrug. “If Madelon makes good pancakes, I remain here – for a time! If not, I go with Gretli. It is not far, to big Pierre’s, only the next Alp. By and by, when I am a man – ” he paused; his eyes too shone, as he looked straight before him. He too saw visions.

Honor felt a shock; felt the blood rising to her cheeks. She had never thought of the possibility of Zitli’s growing up. It had seemed as if he must always be as he was now.

“I shall not marry!” the boy announced, and shook his head decidedly. “No! Love, that makes trouble! Not though maidens in rows besought me!”

Again he swept his arm; Honor had an instant’s vision of ranks of kneeling maidens with outstretched arms, imploring; she laughed outright.

“How funny you are, Zitli! What will you do?”

“I shall make musical-boxes!”

Zitli spoke rapidly and decidedly; his supple hands shaped the boxes as he spoke. His plans were evidently well matured.

“Mademoiselle has seen musical boxes in Vevay? Long, thus? Round, thus? Again, square, thus, with perhaps a dancing figure on the top? Naturally! When I am sixteen, I go to Vevay to learn that trade. Already I can make the cases, of course; that is for a child; the inside, that requires instruction, hein? I am apprenticed to M. Morus, it is the uncle of Big Pierre; Margoton by then has married her cheese-merchant, I lodge with them.”

Honor interrupted him.

“How then? Margoton marries a cheese-merchant?”

Never in her life, she thought, had she heard so much of marrying and giving in marriage. At Madame Madeleine’s, one did not marry. And what would they do without Margoton?

“But naturally!” Zitli shrugged and smiled. “The world marries, is it not so? Only not I! If the good God had designed it, he would not have suffered me to fall down the Alp.”

“Oh, Zitli! was that – how did – But perhaps you’d rather not talk about it!” Honor’s cheeks were crimson, her eyes dark and brimming with tears of sympathy.

Zitli cocked his head with a whimsical glance. “But yes! Why not, when that springs to the eye? I was little, see you, mademoiselle, little like a young cat, and I would go hunting chamois with Brother Atli. I ran away, without knowledge of my sister, well aware she would forbid; our parents were already with the saints. I had a little stick which I called my gun; I thought if I said, ‘Bang!’ loud enough, the chamois would fall dead. I creep, I run, I follow my brother, wholly without noise, you understand; he has no knowledge of me. He comes to a steep crag; above – behold! a herd of chamois go bounding! He mounts, strong, strong, himself a goat. I follow; my foot slips; I fall! et voilà!”

Honor shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hands.

“And – and then?”

“Then? For a while I knew nothing. My brother hears my cry as I fall; he descends, picks me up, brings me home. My faith, I was well served, mademoiselle; but those two – ” the boy’s gay voice faltered a moment, but only a moment. “Me, I would have whipped that little rascal well!” he cried. “But they are different, my brother and sister. Never one word, mademoiselle, to reproach or rebuke me; never one word! All to help, to care for, to spend their money – ah! finally, that is not to speak of. To be a saint, it needs not always to be dead, hein? In my calendar – with reverence be it said – are always St. Atli and St. Gretli.”

Honor was silent. She felt that it was a very rare thing for Zitli to show his feelings thus. His gay smiling way was the one which best enabled him to bear what he had to bear. She laid her hand on his arm a moment; he nodded.

“Thanks, mademoiselle!” he said briefly. “To return! Once I am perfect in the insides – ”

“What do you mean, Zitli?” Honor wiped her eyes furtively, and tried to speak as cheerily as the boy did. “Was there some internal injury as well as – ”

Zitli stared. “The insides of the musical boxes, naturally! What else, mademoiselle? Once I am perfect, I return to my Alps, since boxes may be made equally there, and nowhere else would life be agreeable to me. I think – ” he knit his brows, and spoke slowly, as if considering; “I think to build a châlet – small, you understand, for one person – though there would be room for a guest always – I paint it green, the outside. That blends with the trees, you understand. The stones on the roof I paint white. That is contrast, variety. Inside, all is white, white as La Dumaine or that wicked Séraphine. Look, but look, mademoiselle! even now she tumbles poor Nanni over, her own aunt. Go, thou villain!”

He threw a stick at Séraphine, who bounded into the air with a shrill bleat and disappeared around the corner of the barn.

“There I live. Gretli has taught me to cook. I have the books that the good priest gave me, three or four magnificent books. There are none like them in this Alp. I have my tools, my zither, my mountains about me. I am happy as the day is long. Ah, that is a life to look forward to – always since the brother and sister must marry. That is natural, is it not so? But see, Gretli waves to us. It is to see her in her fine dress before Pierre comes.”

Boy and girl hobbled back to the châlet, Zitli going carefully and slow, and insisting that Honor keep pace with him. They found Gretli magnificent indeed in her Sunday dress; this was not clumsy like Atli’s, but the prettiest costume imaginable: the bright blue skirt very full, the black velvet bodice laced with crimson across the full white chemise. The latter was of heavy creamy linen, with wide sleeves coming to the elbow, the round neck embroidered in blue. Gretli’s superb hair hung in two heavy plaits below her waist, and perched on her head was an elaborate structure of stiff muslin, quaint but extremely becoming. A heavy necklace of silver beads and long silver ear-rings completed the gala dress of the mountain maiden. At sight of her, Honor clapped her hands with delight.

“Oh, Gretli, how beautiful you are! It is the prettiest costume I ever saw. Oh, how I wish Madame Madeleine would let us wear mountain dress!”

Gretli smiled with pleasure. She was delighted that it pleased mademoiselle. To be neat, to be not too ugly, it was to thank the good God for that; but not to dwell upon these matters, since, as her sainted mother had said, the spirit knows nothing of clothes, either red or blue.

“Oh,” cried Honor, “you have brought out the wonderful quilt. Gretli, are you going to finish it?”

Gretli nodded, blushing and smiling.

“Aha!” said Zitli, “that means that the wedding-day approaches. Is it not, my sister? Tell mademoiselle about that!”

Gretli turned to the great quilt which was spread out elaborately on the back of a high settle. She seated herself, taking the unfinished corner in her hands, and began to work with swift, skilful stitches.

“I should have told mademoiselle before about the quilt,” she said. “It is a thing of family, mademoiselle sees. It was begun by my grandmother, of sainted memory, who in her maidenhood designed the whole and worked with her own hands the centre. My mother and her two sisters worked the three corners. The sisters, alas, are no longer with us. They died in youth. To me, then, my mother left the quilt, with directions that I should finish it before my marriage. If I had decided not to marry, I should have left it to my nearest relative, a little cousin far away in the valley. As it is – ”

“As it is,” cried Zitli, “here is Big Pierre, who, I fancy, is impatient to see it finished!”

A long shadow fell in the doorway, and was followed by a very tall young man of singular aspect. He was as slender as the Twins were massive, yet strength and vigor were in every line. He was tanned all one color, a deep russet brown, and his eyes were only a shade deeper. He was dressed in bright green, very much like Atli’s Sunday dress, and in his shirt frill was a similar stiff nosegay of dyed edelweiss; in his hand he carried a huge nosegay of alpenrosen.

“Greeting to this house!” said the young man. “Greeting to Gretli, to Zitli, and to the strange young lady!”

“Greeting to thee, Pierre!” said Gretli. “Come in quickly, and be presented to Mademoiselle Honor – the name of mademoiselle’s honored father is not for me to pronounce. We call her Mademoiselle Honor, Pierre. She is of the pupils of our honored Ladies.”

Briefly, she told the story of Honor’s accident, and Big Pierre glowed with sympathy. To turn the ankle, that was painful. He knew well. He himself – here he extended a leg of really unreasonable length – had sprained his, a while ago. Verily, it appeared that he would grow to his chair before he was able to walk again.

Gretli and Zitli chimed in with stories of sprains and other accidents, until Honor felt that she had been very fortunate indeed to get off so easily. Indeed, in her heart of hearts, she was deeply grateful to Bimbo. Without him and his wickedness, she would never have known the delight and wonder and unbelievableness of these days.

Friendly as Big Pierre was, Honor felt shy; felt too that the lovers should be left to themselves. There was only the one living-room. She was about to ask permission to slip into her own room on some pretext of a nap or the like, when Zitli came to the rescue. Would Mademoiselle come with him and see his perch? It was but a few steps. He would guide her carefully.

“You can trust me, my sister,” he said. “She shall not fall, she shall not make the slightest stumble; as for the goats, I will shut them up in the yard and they shall not come near her.”

With many cautions, Gretli consented, and as the boy and girl went out, they saw her take her seat at her embroidery, while Big Pierre drew his chair to her side and sitting down, seemed to shut up his enormous length like a jack-knife.

“‘All persons more than a mile high to leave the court!’” said Honor to herself. “Which way, Zitli?”

Zitli led the way round the corner of the châlet to the north, to a spot she had not seen before. It was a curious nook in an angle of the rock wall. A jutting ledge, just the right height for a seat, was thickly covered with the same beautiful green moss that the girls had found in their rock parlor down below. In the crannies of the rock ferns waved, and delicate harebells nodded. A few feet below a little crystal stream fell, foaming and flashing down the rocks with a silver tinkle. It was a fairy place.

Honor could hardly speak her delight. A murmured “oh!” half under her breath and a glance told Zitli all he wanted to know. The boy’s face fairly shone with pleasure.

“I have kept this for mademoiselle!” he said. “I would not let Gretli show her. It is my own place.”

“It is the most beautiful place I ever saw in my life,” said Honor simply.

“Tiens!” said the boy, with his quaint twinkle. “These are very large words, mademoiselle. Nevertheless, I am glad it pleases you. It is my own, do you see? When I was all little, after – after I hunted the chamois, you understand – there was more of pain than anything else for me. I was little, the pain was large. I saw no sense in that. What would you? A child does not understand. I cried, I was not to console. I made much trouble for that good brother and sister. When the pain seemed too large, one of those good ones would bring me here, would set me down, and would say,

“‘My child, behold the glory of God! Behold how it is wide, how it is great, how it is beautiful. Do not let the pain that is in thy body destroy in thy soul the sense of thankfulness!’

“Mademoiselle, that was the chief lesson of my childhood, that I was to be thankful. Since that, all my life I am thankful. I have no more pain, or not often and not great. It is no longer larger than I am. On the contrary, it is small, small, by comparison. I laugh at it! It goes like that!”

He picked up a pebble and sent it skipping down the mountain-side.

They were silent for a time. Then Honor said very timidly,

“It is good to be here with you, Zitli. I have learned things here that I shall never forget. The next time you have pain, perhaps you will remember that.”

The boy gave her a quick look of pleasure.

“Merci, mademoiselle!” he said. “I thank you from my heart.”

“I have never had a boy friend,” said Honor. “I should like very much to have you for a friend, Zitli. Will you have me?”

A flush rose to the boy’s brown cheek.

“And I,” he said, “have never had a friend of my own age at all. What happiness for me, mademoiselle! Friends then, is it not so?”

They shook hands gravely, and Honor drew a long breath of contentment.

“Since you are my friend, I can tell you my thoughts about the mountains. I could never tell anybody before.”

CHAPTER XI
FAREWELL TO THE CHÂLET

At fourteen, conditions establish themselves quickly, and become – to the fourteen-year-old mind – permanent. Honor had been a short week at the Châlet des Rochers, and it seemed her home; Vevay, the Pension Madeleine, the girls, even dear Madame Madeleine and Soeur Séraphine, were like a dream. A pleasant dream – some day, she supposed, she must go back, for a time at least; she was not yet old enough or strong enough to be a sennerin of the Alps, she realized that. How surprised they would be when she told them —

To the outward eye, on this beautiful June morning, Honor appeared an extremely pretty, red-haired child in a blue dress, curled up comfortably in the barn doorway with bright musing eyes looking out over the mountains. In reality —her reality – she was a woman, tall, grave and beautiful, dressed in full Swiss costume, velvet bodice, embroidered apron, silver earrings and all the rest of it. She was receiving with dignified cordiality her former friends, the friends of her childhood: the Lady of Virelai with her lordly husband; Stephanie, Patricia and the rest; was answering their eager questions with simple grace and candor. Yes, she was happy, very, very happy. This was the life she had chosen. Gay cities had beckoned to her, throngs of knights and heroes bold had sighed to do her homage. “The mountains called me and I came. My brother Zitli and I dwell apart, in the sanctuary of Nature, at peace with all men!”

Then she would bid them be seated, and would bring them cream and honey and biscuits des Rochers, and they would marvel at the exquisite daintiness of all her surroundings; “the simplicity which is perfection!” as Soeur Séraphine said; at the calm majesty of her mien and carriage. Her magnificent hair was braided now, and hung in two heavy dark ropes —

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Honor! where art thou? Come, my child, and see who is here!”

Alas! the dignified sennerin vanished; not even a strand of her magnificent hair, not even a twinkle of her silver earrings remained. Only little Honor in her blue dress, her curly gold mane tossing about her shoulders, pulled herself up by the barn door, and limped across the green (no need of crutches now!) to meet – Fate, in the person of Margoton!

Not an unkindly Fate, it would appear. Margoton’s massive face was radiant, Margoton’s columnar arms were outstretched; she was altogether a pleasant figure in her neat Sunday dress, with the pink ribbon in her snowy cap.

“Ah, my little mademoiselle! Ah, but it is good to see thee again. We have missed thee – ah, for example! my faith, it seemed to us all a year that thou hast been away. Thou art all pale, little cherished one! Tiens! thou regardest me with great eyes, as if I were a wolf! How, then! Thou art not glad to see Margoton?”

“I – I was startled!” faltered Honor. “I – didn’t know – dear Margoton, forgive me! but – have you come – ”

She could not say it. She could smile through her tears on the kind giantess, could press her hand in genuine affection, but she could not speak.

Margoton replied with a shower of nods. But yes, assuredly, she was come for mademoiselle, to take her home; what else?

“Has the time seemed long to thee also, my little cabbage? Ah! Mademoiselle Stephanie, for example, has been a fountain of tears, desiring thee. A fête awaits thee là-bas– but – chut! that is not to tell. Gretli has been good to thee, yes? She is not all bad, our Gretli!”

The sisters beamed on each other affectionately.

“One does one’s possible!” said Gretli.

“She has been an angel,” cried Honor. “A perfect angel, Margoton! I never can tell – ”

“Tiens!” said Gretli cheerfully. “The holy angels are probably less solid than I, Mademoiselle. For example! it would take a strong pair of wings to sustain me, is it not so? You are to tell my honored Ladies, sister, that M’lle Honor has been good as – bread, I do not say! galette could not be better. And the ankle – naturally it is not yet of like strength with the other, that comes slowly; but it marches, it marches. A little week or so more, and Mademoiselle will be running and leaping like – but like that evil-disposed Séraphine, whom behold yonder, annoying poor Nanni as of custom!”

Good Gretli! she had seen the tears in Honor’s eyes, had marked the tremor in her voice; she talked on easily, giving the child time to recover from the surprise. To leave the mountains, thought Gretli, even after a short week; naturally that rent the heart. Margoton had lived so long down there, she had forgotten – though never ceasing to love the mountains – how desolating it was to leave them. Ah, yes! and the little one had a mountain heart, that was to say a heart of gold.

“Figure to thyself what Mademoiselle has done this morning!” she cried, as they walked slowly toward the châlet, the sisters regulating their powerful stride by Honor’s limping little steps. “She has made a cheese!”

“My faith!” cried Margoton. “For example! that was well done.”

“Well done indeed!” Gretli nodded sagaciously. “When I tell thee that it is a cream cheese of the most perfect! Had she passed her life on the Alp, it could have been no better.”

“You helped me, Gretli!” said downright Honor. “I couldn’t have done it by myself.”

“Naturally! that understands itself. A little advice here or there, what is that? I tell thee, sister, friend Gruyère has no better cheese in his shop this day; and were it not that my honored Ladies might like it for their supper, I would send it to him, demanding a fancy price, my faith!”

M. Gruyère was the cheese merchant to whom Margoton was betrothed. Honor knew him well by sight, a little dried-up, snuff-colored man, who might go into Margoton’s pocket, she thought.

“He goes always well, this good Gruyère?” asked Gretli.

Margoton shook her head. Not too well, it appeared. He had been assassinated by rheumatism this past week; in the legs it seized him, in the arms, everywhere. To hear his cries, that lacerated the heart.

“He needs a wife, that one!” said Gretli slyly.

Margoton assented calmly. It was true, she said. He had no sense. Another year or so, when the garden had so to speak grown up a little more, understood itself as it were, one might begin to think about that. At present, with the cabbages what they were, and the snails devastating the cauliflowers, and the peas annihilated by a malediction of black rust, it was out of the question.

“Mademoiselle asks nothing about the pension?” Margoton dismissed the unfortunate Gruyère with a wave of the hand, and turned smiling to Honor. “These other demoiselles are in a despair till they behold her; as I said. M. le Professeur, when he came yesterday – for the lesson of French history, as Mademoiselle knows – actually his venerable countenance was to make weep when he found no M’lle. Honor. ‘Where is my Fair One with golden locks?’ demands that poor gentleman. ‘I have prepared a genealogy of the Merovingians for her; she has the historical sense, that young person.’ I heard it with my ears, Mademoiselle.”

“What is that, Merovingian?” asked Gretli. “It sounds like a cheese, but I know of no such.”

“They were early kings of France!” said Honor, brightening a little. “First the Merovingians, then the Carlovingians, then the Capets. St. Louis was a Capet, you know.”

Both sisters nodded vigorously. “That was a very holy saint!” said Gretli. “His goodness to the poor was well known. He also washed the feet of holy pilgrims. Also there was Louis XVI, a martyr, as every child knows. Ah! that unhappy France! what terrible histories! To be Swiss,” she added; “that is to pray for, if these things were in our hands, which the good God has in nowise permitted. M’lle Stephanie found herself not too ill, Margoton, after the attack of that thoughtless animal?”

“Oh, yes!” Honor’s heart smote her. What a selfish creature she was! she had not thought of poor Stephanie all these days.

“Do tell us how Stephanie is, Margoton! I hope she was not really hurt.”

It was Gretli who answered, a shade of asperity in her kind voice.

“She was hurt, Mademoiselle, as much as a flea is hurt that falls on a featherbed. Precisely so much, and no more. Did she not knock you down and descend upon your prostrate form? I ask you! Not of her free will, I grant you, but so it was. She was frightened, she rent the air with her shrieks, the mountains rang with them; but of injury – ah! for example! not one particle of that, believe me!”

Margoton demurred; was not her sister perhaps a trifle severe? There was a bruise on the child’s forehead, that was visible to the eye. There was no doubt that Bimbo was an evil beast. To attack from behind like that; Margoton asked you, was that well-conducted?

“He had provocation!” cried Gretli. “I do not wholly defend our Bimbo; he has the faults of youth, and of his nature. A goat, that is not a philosopher, hein? But, it is a fact that he had provocation. Who in her senses would bring a scarlet parasol to a châlet of the Alps? No! my faith, that was not well done. A bruise on the forehead? That is a small matter indeed; while behold our little Mademoiselle here a prisoner for a whole week, deprived of her studies, of her companions, of – ”

“But yet,” added Gretli quickly, seeing Honor’s eyes starry with tears again, “she has not been altogether unhappy, hein, M’lle Honor? And to stay once at the Châlet des Rochers, that is to stay again; it is like that. Mademoiselle will come again in the autumn, is it not so, to see the homecoming of the herd? That is another festival of our mountains, dear to our hearts. Now – a little goûter, is it not so? Before making the descent; a glass of cream, a little honey, a biscuit – hold! that I bring them on the instant!”

There was little packing to do. M’me Madeleine had sent a few necessaries by post, and these were all too quickly made into a neat roll. A basket must be packed, with Honor’s cream cheese for the Ladies’ supper, a bottle of whey and a packet of biscuits in case of hunger or thirst during the journey. While Gretli was bustling about on these matters, chatting the while with her sister of affairs here at the châlet, there at the Maison Madeleine, Honor stole into her little room to say good-by. How homelike it had grown! how she loved the little bed with its four faces smiling from the posts! Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, she named them; they had certainly blessed the bed that she lay on. The carvings on the narrow shelf, Zitli’s work, as she now knew; the windows through which the mountains greeted her so kindly morning, noon and evening, with a new glory for every time of day or night; even the bare walls, with their fresh rough plaster, white as snow, were dearer to her than any imaginable hangings or tapestries of queens’ palaces.

“Good-by!” said Honor softly. “Good-by, dear room! good-by, dear little châlet, and all the tiny cows and goats! I’ll come back to you some day!”

 
“On the Alp the grass is sweetest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!”
 

Zitli’s voice sounded clear and sweet from the garden patch where he was working. Honor leaned out of the window. “Zitli, wait!” she cried. “I am going! I am coming!”

Zitli looked up with a twinkle. “How then, Mademoiselle? Coming and going, both at once?”

In another moment Honor had joined him, and with trembling voice and brimming eyes was telling her sad little story. Margoton had come for her. As soon as Atli came from the Alp, she must go; must leave the Châlet des Rochers and go back to the hot, dusty town, to schoolbooks and school talk. How could she bear it?

Zitli’s bright face grew sober; he pondered a moment, leaning on his hoe.

“Sapperli poppette!” he murmured. “This is an apoplexy for us indeed, Mademoiselle.”

“Say ‘Honor,’” cried the girl. “We are friends, Zitli. Why should you call me Mademoiselle?”

Zitli shook his head decidedly. As to the why, he was not altogether clear. To begin with, that did not say itself in his tongue; not, at least, with any degree of comfort. And besides, the sisters and brother called her Mademoiselle, doubtless because it was fitting; he would prefer to do as they did, with Honor’s permission.

“And for the departure, – ” the boy looked up, and his face was bright again, – “My brother and sister,” he announced, “have instructed me thus, Mademoiselle. That which we do ourselves, for that we may be glad or sorry, according as it is done well or ill. That which the good God sends, for that we are to be thankful, whatever it is, since He sends nothing without reason. It was thus my revered grandmother instructed them, and they me in turn. So, though – ” he made a quaint grimace, – “though it is very grievous for me to have Mademoiselle go away, still I say to myself, ‘She goes to school,’ to learn wonderful things out of books. Ah! Mademoiselle, what happiness! hold! but when I am apprenticed to the maker of musical boxes, I, too, shall have some schooling, he has promised it. Not, of course, such as Mademoiselle has with the holy Ladies, but in some measure, yes! Books! ah, my faith! that is to dream of, hein?”