when she gained the brow of the hill and sprang like a deer down the opposite slope.  No one had seen her go, she was sure of that; and now they could never tell which way she had turned, and would be far more likely to run back along the road.  How they would shout and scream, and how Le Boss would swear!  Ah, no more would he swear at Marie because people did not always give money, being perhaps poor themselves, or unwilling to give to so ugly a face as his girl’s, who carried round the dish.  No more!  And La Patronne would be sorry perhaps a little,—­she had the good heart, La Patronne, under all the fat,—­and Old Billy, he would be too sorry, she was sure.  Poor Old Billy! it was cruel to leave him, when he had such joy of her playing, the good old man, and a hard life taking care of the beasts, and bearing all the blame if any of them died through hunger.  But it would have been sadder for Old Billy to see her die, Marie, and she would have died, of course she would!  To live without the Lady, a pretty life that would be! far sooner would one go at once to the good God, where the angels played all day, even if one were not allowed to play oneself just at first.  Afterward, of course, when they found out how she had played down here, it would be otherwise.

Meanwhile, all these thoughts did not keep Marie from being tired, and hungry too; and she was glad enough to see some brown roofs clustered together at a little distance, as she turned a corner of the road.  A village! good!  Here would be children, without doubt; and where there were children, Marie was among friends.  She stopped for a moment, to push back her hair, which had fallen down in the course of her night, and to tie the blue handkerchief neatly over it, and shake the dust from her bare feet.  They were pretty feet, so brown and slender!  She had shoes, but they were in the wagon; La Patronne took care of all the Sunday clothes, and there had been no chance to get at anything, even if she could have been hampered by such things as shoes, with the Lady to carry.  It did not in the least matter about shoes, when it was summer:  when the road was hot, one walked in the cool grass at the side; when there was no grass—­eh, one waited till one came to some.  They were only for state, these shoes.  They were stiff and hard, and the heel-places hurt:  it was different for La Patronne, who wore stockings under hers.  But here were the houses, and it was time to play.  They were pleasant-looking houses, Marie thought, they looked as if persons lived in them who stayed at home and spun, as the women did in Brittany.  Ah, that it was far away, Brittany! she had almost forgotten it, and now it all seemed to come back to her, as she gazed about her at the houses, some white, some brown, all with an air of thrift and comfort, as becomes a New England village.  That white house there, with the bright green blinds!  That pleased her eye.  And see! there was a child’s toy lying on the step, a child’s face peeping out of the window.  Decidedly, she had arrived.