“Ah, but if you see a little boy what can walk over the roof of the house, you want the same to do it, n’est-ce-pas?” cried Marie.  “You try, and try, and when you cannot jump, you think that not a so nize little boy as when his legs were short.  So boy, so dog.  Coquelicot, all his life he want to jump like Monsieur George, and all his life he cannot jump at all.  You say to him, ’Coquelicot, are you foolishness? you can do feefty things and George not one of zem:  you can read the letters, and find the things in the pocket, and play the ins_tru_ment, and sing the tune to make die people of laughing, yet you are not content.  Let him have in peace his legs, Monsieur George, then!’ But no! and every time Monsieur George come down from the great jump, Coquelicot is ready, and bite his legs so hard what he can.”

Petie laughed outright.  “I think that’s awful funny!” he said.  “I say, Mis’ De Arthenay, I’d like to seen him bite his legs.  Did he holler?”

“Monsieur George?  He cry, and go to his bed.  All the dogs, they afraid of Coquelicot, because he have the minds.  And he, Coquelicot, he fear nossing, except Madame when she is angry.”

“Who was she?” asked Petie,—­“a big dog?”

“Ah, dog, no!” cried Marie, her face flushing.  “Madame my violon, my life, my pleasure, my friend.  Ah, mon Dieu, what friend have I?” Her breast heaved, and she broke into a wild fit of crying, forgetting the child by her side, forgetting everything in the world save the hunger at her heart for the one creature to whom she could speak, and who could speak in turn to her.

Petie sat silent, frightened at the sudden storm of sobs and tears.  What had he done, he wondered?  At length he mustered courage to touch his friend’s arm softly with his little hand.

“I didn’t go to do it!” he said.  “Don’t ye cry, Mis’ De Arthenay!  I don’t know what I did, but I didn’t go to do it, nohow.”

Marie turned and looked at him, and smiled through her tears.  “Dear little Petie!” she said, stroking the curly head, “you done nossing, little Petie.  It was the honger, no more!  Oh, no more!” she caught her breath, but choked the sob back bravely, and smiled again.  Something woke in her child heart, and bade her not sadden the heart of the younger child with a grief which was not his.  It is one of the lessons of life, and it was well with Marie that she learned it early.

“Madame, my violon,” she resumed after a pause, speaking cheerfully, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “she have many voices, Petie; tousand voices, like all birds, all winds, all song in the world; and she have an angry voice, too, deep down, what make you tr-remble in your heart, if you are bad. Bien!  Sometime Coquelicot, he been bad, very bad.  He know so much, that make him able for the bad, see, like for the good.  Yes!  Sometime, he steal the sugar; sometime he come in when we make music, and make wiz us yells, and spoil the music; sometime he make the horreebl’ faces at the poppies and make scream them with fear.”