In truth, Petit-Pierre soon showed whose son he was, and, although he was hardly awake and did not understand where he was or how he came there, he began to devour.  Then, when his hunger was appeased, being intensely excited as children generally are when their regular habits are interrupted, he exhibited more quick wit, more curiosity, and more shrewdness than usual.  He made them tell him where he was, and when he learned that he was in the middle of a forest, he was a little afraid.

“Are there naughty beasts in this forest?” he asked his father.

“No, there are none at all,” was the reply.  “Don’t be afraid.”

“Then you lied when you told me that the wolves would carry me off if I went through the big forest with you?”

“Do you hear this reasoner?” said Germain in some embarrassment.

“He is right,” replied little Marie, “you told him that; he has a good memory, and he remembers it.  But you must understand, my little Pierre, that your father never lies.  We passed the big forest while you were asleep, and now we’re in the little forest, where there aren’t any naughty beasts.”

“Is the little forest very far from the big one?”

“Pretty far; and then the wolves never leave the big forest.  Even if one should come here, your father would kill him.”

“And would you kill him, too, little Marie?”

“We would all kill him, for you would help us, my Pierre, wouldn’t you?  You’re not afraid, I know.  You would hit him hard!”

“Yes, yes,” said the child, proudly, assuming a heroic attitude, “we would kill ’em.”

“There’s no one like you for talking to children,” said Germain to little Marie, “and for making them hear reason.  To be sure, it isn’t long since you were a child yourself, and you remember what your mother used to say to you.  I believe that the younger one is, the better one understands the young.  I am very much afraid that a woman of thirty, who doesn’t know what it is to be a mother, will find it hard to learn to prattle and reason with young brats.”

“Why so, Germain?  I don’t know why you have such a bad idea of this woman; you’ll get over it!”

“To the devil with the woman!” said Germain.  “I would like to go home and never come back here.  What do I need of a woman I don’t know!”

“Little father,” said the child, “why do you keep talking about your wife to-day, when she is dead?”

“Alas! you haven’t forgotten your poor dear mother, have you?”

“No, for I saw them put her in a pretty box of white wood, and my grandma took me to her to kiss her and bid her good-by!—­She was all white and cold, and every night my aunt tells me to pray to the good Lord to let her get warm with Him in heaven.  Do you think she’s there now?”

“I hope so, my child; but you must keep on praying:  that shows your mother that you love her.”

“I am going to say my prayer,” replied the child; “I did not think of saying it this evening.  But I can’t say it all by myself; I always forget something.  Little Marie must help me.”