Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag (Vol. 1-6). Louisa May Alcott

often seen this rosy, bright-eyed child, had nodded to her, but never spoken, for she looked rather shy, and always seemed in haste. Now the sight of the goat reminded us of an excuse for addressing her, and as she was about to pass with the respectful little curtsey of the country, my friend said in French:—

      'Stay please. I want to speak to you.' She stopped at once and stood looking at us under her long eyelashes in a timid yet confiding way, very pretty to see.

      'We want to drink goat's milk every morning: can you let us have it, little one?'

      'Oh, yes, mademoiselle! Nannette gives fine milk, and no one has yet engaged her,' answered the child, her whole face brightening at the prospect.

      'What name have you?'

      'Marie Rosier, mademoiselle.'

      'And you live at Lehon?'

      'Yes, mademoiselle.'

      'Have you parents?'

      'Truly, yes, of the best. My father has a loom, my mother works in the field and mill with brother Yvon, and I go to school and care for Nannette and nurse little Bebe.'

      'What school?'

      'At the convent, mademoiselle. The good sisters teach us the catechism, also to write and read and sew. I like it much,' and Marie glanced at the little prayer in her apron pocket, as if proud to show she could read it.

      'What age have you?'

      'Ten years, mademoiselle.'

      'You are young to do so much, for we often see you in the market buying and selling, and sometimes digging in your garden there below, and bringing water from the river. Do you love work as well as school?'

      'Ah, no; but mademoiselle knows it is necessary to work: every one does, and I'm glad to do my part. Yvon works much harder than I, and the father sits all day at his loom, yet he is sick and suffers much. Yes, I am truly glad to help,' and little Marie settled the big loaf as if quite ready to bear her share of the burdens.

      'Shall we go and see your father about the goat? and if he agrees will you bring the milk fresh and warm every morning?' I asked, thinking that a sight of that blooming face would brighten our days for us.

      'Oh, yes! I always do it for the ladies, and you will find the milk quite fresh and warm, hey, Nannette?' and Marie laughed as she pulled the goat from the hedge where she was nibbling the young leaves.

      We followed the child as she went clattering down the stony path, and soon came into the narrow street bounded on one side by the row of low, stone houses, and on the other by the green wet meadow full of willows, and the rapid mill-stream. All along this side of the road sat women and children, stripping the bark from willow twigs to be used in basket-making. A busy sight and a cheerful one; for the women gossiped in their high, clear voices, the children sang and laughed, and the babies crept about as freely as young lambs.

      We found Marie's home a very poor one. Only two rooms in the little hut, the lower one with its earthen floor, beds in the wall, smoky fire, and single window where the loom stood. At it sat a pale, dark man who stopped work as we entered, and seemed glad to rest while we talked to him, or rather while Kate did, for I could not understand his odd French, and preferred to watch Marie during the making of the bargain.

      Yvon, a stout lad of twelve, was cutting up brush with an old sickle, and little Bebe, looking like a Dutch doll in her tiny round cap, tight blue gown, and bits of sabots, clung to Marie as she got the supper.

      I wondered what the children at home would have said to such a supper. A few cabbage leaves made the soup, and this, with the dry black bread and a sip of sour wine, was all they had. There were no plates or bowls, but little hollow places in the heavy wooden table near the edge, and into these fixed cups Marie ladled the soup, giving each a wooden spoon from a queer rack in the middle; the kettle stood at one end, the big loaf lay at the other, and all stood round eating out of their little troughs, with Nannette and a rough dog close by to receive any crusts that might be left.

      Presently the mother came in, a true Breton woman; rosy and robust, neat and cheery, though her poor clothes were patched all over, her hands more rough and worn with hard work than any I ever saw, and the fine hair under her picturesque cap gray at thirty with much care.

      I saw then where Marie got the brightness that seemed to shine in every feature of her little face, for the mother's coming was like a ray of sunshine in that dark place, and she had a friendly word and look for every one.

      Our little arrangement was soon made, and we left them all smiling and nodding as if the few francs we were to pay would be a fortune to them.

      Early next morning we were wakened by Françoise, the maid, who came up to announce that the goat's milk had arrived. Then we heard a queer, quick, tapping sound on the stairs, and to our great amusement, Nannette walked into the room, straight up to my bedside, and stood there looking at me with her mild yellow eyes as if she was quite used to seeing night-caps. Marie followed with a pretty little bowl in her hand, and said, laughing at our surprise, 'See, dear mademoiselle; in this way I make sure that the milk is quite fresh and warm;' and kneeling down, she milked the bowl full in a twinkling, while Nannette quietly chewed her cud and sniffed at a plate of rolls on the table.

      The warm draught was delicious, and we drank each our portion with much merriment.

      'It is our custom,' said Françoise; who stood by with her arms folded, and looked on in a lofty manner.

      'What had you for your own breakfast?' I asked, as I caught Marie's eye hungrily fixed on the rolls and some tempting little cakes of chocolate left from our lunch the day before.

      'My good bread, as usual, mademoiselle, also sorrel salad and—and water,' answered Marie, as if trying to make the most of her scanty meal.

      'Will you eat the rolls and put the chocolate in your pocket to nibble at school? You must be tired with this long walk so early.'

      She hesitated, but could not resist; and said in a low tone, as she held the bread in her hand without eating it—

      'Would mademoiselle be angry if I took it to Bebe? She has never tasted the beautiful white bread, and it would please her much.'

      I emptied the plate into her basket, tucked in the chocolate, and added a gay picture for baby, which unexpected treasures caused Marie to clasp her hands and turn quite red with delight.

      After that she came daily, and we had merry times with old Nannette and her little mistress, whom we soon learned to love, so busy, blithe, and grateful was she.

      We soon found a new way to employ her, for the boy who drove our donkey did not suit us, and we got the donkey-woman to let us have Marie in the afternoon when her lessons were done. She liked that, and so did we; for she seemed to understand the nature of donkeys, and could manage them without so much beating and shouting as the boy thought necessary. Such pleasant drives as we had, we two big women in the droll wagon, drawn by the little gray donkey that looked as if made of an old trunk, so rusty and rough was he as he went trotting along, his long ears wagging, and his small hoofs clattering over the fine hard road, while Marie sat on the shaft with a long whip, talking and laughing, and giving Andrè a poke now and then, crying 'E! E! houp la!' to make him go.

      We found her a capital little guide and story-teller, for her grandmother had told her all the tales and legends of the neighbourhood, and it was very pleasant to hear her repeat them in pretty peasant French, as we sat among the ruins, while Kate sketched, I took notes, and Marie held the big parasol over us.

      Some of these stones were charming; at least as she told them, with her little face changing from gay to sad as she gesticulated most dramatically.

      The romance of 'Gilles de Bretagne' was one of her favourites. How he carried off his child-wife when she was only twelve, how he was imprisoned and poisoned, and at last left to starve in a dungeon, and would stand at his window crying, 'Bread, bread; for the love of God!' yet no one dared to give him any, till a poor peasant woman went in the night and