“Do you mean to say,” cried Joyce, “that you have been out here in the field since sunrise without a bite to eat?”

Jules nodded.

“Then I’m going straight home to get you something.”  Before he could answer she was darting over the fields like a little flying squirrel.

“Oh, what if it were Jack!” she kept repeating as she ran.  “Dear old Jack, beaten and starved, without anybody to love him or say a kind word to him.”  The mere thought of such misfortune brought a sob.

In a very few minutes Jules saw her coming across the field again, more slowly this time, for both hands were full, and without their aid she had no way to steady the big hat that flapped forward into her eyes at every step.  Jules eyed the food ravenously.  He had not known how weak and hungry he was until then.

“It will not be like this when your uncle comes home,” said Joyce, as she watched the big mouthfuls disappear down the grateful little throat.  Jules shrugged his shoulders, answering tremulously, “Oh, yes, it will be lots worse.  Brossard says that my Uncle Martin has a terrible temper, and that he turned his poor sister and my grandfather out of the house one stormy might.  Brossard says he shall tell him how troublesome I am, and likely he will turn me out, too.  Or, if he doesn’t do that, they will both whip me every day.”

Joyce stamped her foot.  “I don’t believe it,” she cried, indignantly.  “Brossard is only trying to scare you.  Your uncle is an old man now, so old that he must be sorry for the way he acted when he was young.  Why, of course he must be,” she repeated, “or he never would have brought you here when you were left a homeless baby.  More than that, I believe he will be angry when he finds how you have been treated.  Maybe he will send Brossard away when you tell him.”

“I would not dare to tell him,” said Jules, shrinking back at the bare suggestion.

“Then I dare,” cried Joyce with flashing eyes.  “I am not afraid of Brossard or Henri or your uncle, or any man that I ever knew.  What’s more, I intend to march over here just as soon as your uncle comes home, and tell him right before Brossard how you have been treated.”

Jules gasped in admiration of such reckless courage.  “Seems to me Brossard himself would be afraid of you if you looked at him that way.”  Then his voice sank to a whisper.  “Brossard is afraid of one thing, I’ve heard him tell Henri so, and that is ghosts.  They talk about them every night when the wind blows hard and makes queer noises in the chimney.  Sometimes they are afraid to put out their candles for fear some evil spirit might be in the room.”

“I’m glad he is afraid of something, the mean old thing!” exclaimed Joyce.  For a few moments nothing more was said, but Jules felt comforted now that he had unburdened his long pent up little heart.  He reached out for several blades of grass and began idly twisting them around his finger.