“Yes, that’s a knack that children who tend sheep have; but I’ve been an ox-driver ever since I knew how to walk.”

“That’s how you came to be stronger in your arms than clever with your hands.  There’s your fire all built; now you’ll see if it won’t burn!  Give me the fire and a few dry ferns.  Good! now blow; you’re not weak-lunged, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” said Germain, blowing like a forge-bellows.  In a moment, the flame shot up, cast a red light at first, and finally rose in bluish flashes under the branches of the oaks, struggling with the mist, and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around.

“Now, I’ll sit down beside the little one and see that no sparks fall on him,” said the girl.  “You must throw on wood and keep the fire bright, Germain! we shall not catch cold or the fever here, I promise you.”

“Faith, you’re a smart girl,” said Germain, “and you can make a fire like a little witch.  I feel like a new man, and my courage is coming back to me; for, with my legs wet to the knees, and the prospect of staying here till daybreak in that condition, I was in a very bad humor just now.”

“And when one is in a bad humor, one never thinks of anything,” rejoined little Marie.

“And are you never in a bad humor, pray?”

“Oh! no, never!  What’s the use?”

“Why, it’s of no use, that’s certain; but how can you help it, when you have things to annoy you?  God knows that you have plenty of them, poor child; for you haven’t always been happy!”

“True, my poor mother and I have suffered.  We have been unhappy, but we never lost courage.”

“I wouldn’t lose courage for any work that ever was,” said Germain; “but poverty would grieve me, for I have never lacked anything.  My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall be as long as I work at the farm:  that will be always, I hope; but every one has his own troubles!  I have suffered in another way.”

“Yes, you lost your wife, and it was a great pity!”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Oh!  I cried bitterly for her, Germain, I tell you! for she was so kind!  But let’s not talk about her any more or I shall cry again; all my sorrows seem to be coming back to me to-day.”

“Indeed, she loved you dearly, little Marie; she thought a deal of you and your mother.  What! you are crying!  Come, come, my girl, I don’t want to cry, you know—­”

“But you are crying, Germain!  You are crying, too!  Why should a man be ashamed to cry for his wife?  Cry on, don’t mind me!  I share that grief with you!”

“You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you.  But put your feet near the fire; your skirts are all damp, too, poor little girl!  Let me take your place by the child, and do you warm yourself better than that.”

“I’m warm enough,” said Marie; “if you want to sit down, take a corner of the cloak; I am very comfortable.”