Germain’s fatherly heart was as soft and weak as a woman’s.  His wife’s death, the care he had been compelled to bestow upon his little ones, together with the thought that the poor motherless children needed to be dearly loved, had combined to make it so, and such a hard struggle took place within him, especially as he was ashamed of his weakness, and tried to conceal his distress from little Marie, that the perspiration stood out on his forehead and his eyes were bordered with red as if they, too, were all ready to shed tears.  Finally, he tried to be angry; but as he turned to little Marie, as if to call her to witness his firmness of will, he saw that the dear girl’s face was bathed in tears, and, all his courage deserting him, it was impossible for him to keep back his own, although he continued to scold and threaten.

“Really, your heart is too hard,” said little Marie at last, “and for my part, I could never hold out like that against a child who is so unhappy.  Come, Germain, take him along.  Your mare is used to carrying two grown people and a child, for your brother-in-law and his wife, who is much heavier than I am, go to market every Saturday, with their boy, on the honest creature’s back.  You can put him up in front of you; indeed, I’d rather go all alone on foot than make the little fellow suffer so.”

“Don’t be disturbed about that,” said Germain, who was dying with anxiety to be persuaded.  “Grise is strong, and would carry two more if there was room on her backbone.  But what shall we do with the child on the way? he will be cold and hungry—­and who will look after him to-night and to-morrow, put him to bed, wash him and dress him?  I don’t dare put that trouble on a woman whom I don’t know, and who will think, I have no doubt, that I stand very little on ceremony with her for a beginning.”

“According to the good-will or annoyance she shows, you will be able to judge her at once, Germain, believe me; and at all events, if she doesn’t take to your Pierre, I will take charge of him.  I will go to her house to dress him, and I’ll take him into the fields to-morrow.  I’ll amuse him all day, and see that he has all he needs.”

“And he’ll tire you out, my poor girl!  He’ll be a burden to you! a whole day—­that’s a long while!”

“On the contrary, I shall enjoy it; he will be company for me, and make me less unhappy the first day I shall have to pass in a new country.  I shall fancy I am still at home.”

The child, seeing that little Marie was taking his part, had clung to her skirt and held it so tight that she would have had to hurt him to take it away.  When he saw that his father was yielding, he took Marie’s hand in both his little sunburned ones and kissed it, leaping for joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatience that children show in all their desires.

“Well, well,” said the girl, taking him in her arms, “we must try to soothe this poor heart that is jumping like a little bird’s, and if you feel cold when night comes, my Pierre, just tell me, and I’ll wrap you in my cloak.  Kiss your little father, and ask him to forgive you for being such a bad boy.  Tell him that it shall never happen again! never, do you hear?”