at our place has been taken sick and she’s going back to her people, and if you’ll come to us within a week, you shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year, up to midsummer.’—­The child refused, but she couldn’t help thinking about it and telling me when she came home at night and found me sad and perplexed about getting through the winter, which is sure to be hard and long, for we saw the cranes and wild geese fly south this year a full month earlier than usual.  We both cried; but at last we took courage.  We said to each other that we couldn’t stay together, because there’s hardly enough to keep one person alive on our little handful of land; and then Marie’s getting old—­here she is nearly sixteen—­and she must do as others do, earn her bread and help her poor mother.”

“Mere Guillette,” said the old ploughman, “if fifty francs was all that was needed to put an end to your troubles and make it unnecessary for you to send your daughter away, why, I would help you to find them, although fifty francs begins to mean something to people like us.  But we must consult good sense as well as friendship in everything.  If you were saved from want for this winter, you wouldn’t be safe from future want, and the longer your daughter postpones taking the step, the harder it will be for you and for her to part.  Little Marie is getting to be tall and strong, and she has nothing to do at home.  She might fall into lazy habits—­”

“Oh! as far as that goes, I’m not afraid,” said Mere Guillette.  “Marie’s as brave as a rich girl at the head of a big establishment could be.  She doesn’t sit still a minute with her arms folded, and when we haven’t any work, she cleans and rubs our poor furniture and makes every piece shine like a looking-glass.  She’s a child that’s worth her weight in gold, and I’d have liked it much better to have her come to you as a shepherdess instead of going so far away among people I don’t know.  You’d have taken her at midsummer if we could have made up our minds; but now you’ve hired all your help, and we can’t think of it again until midsummer next year.”

“Oh!  I agree with all my heart, Guillette!  I shall be very glad to do it.  But, meanwhile, she will do well to learn a trade and get used to working for others.”

“Yes, of course; the die is cast.  The farmer at Ormeaux sent for her this morning; we said yes, and she must go.  But the poor child doesn’t know the way, and I shouldn’t like to send her so far all alone.  As your son-in-law is going to Fourche to-morrow, he can just as well take her.  It seems that it’s very near the farm she’s going to, according to what they tell me; for I have never been there myself.”

“They’re right side by side, and my son-in-law will take her.  That’s as it should be; indeed, he can take her behind him on the mare, and that will save her shoes.  Here he is, coming in to supper.  I say, Germain, Mere Guillette’s little Marie is going to Ormeaux as shepherdess.  You’ll take her on your horse, won’t you?”