By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself audible.  All of us know this little voice.  We call it conscience.

“Jeanneton missed me,” she thought.  “And, oh, dear!  I pushed her away only last night and wouldn’t tell her a story.  And Marie hoped I was having a pleasant time somewhere.  I wish I hadn’t slapped Marie last Friday.  And I wish I hadn’t thrown Marc’s ball into the fire that day I was angry with him.  How unkind he was to say that—­but I wasn’t always kind to him.  And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up.  That was because he broke my cup.  Oh, dear, oh, dear.  What a bad girl I’ve been to them all.”

“But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn’t you?” said the inward voice.  “I think you could.”

And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud:  “I could.  Yes—­and I will.”

The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she now regarded as a hateful thing.  She untied her shoes and shook it out in the grass.  It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it instantly vanished.  A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a beetle-green coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes.  But Toinette had had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the road toward home, running with all her might.

“Where have you been all day, Toinette?” cried the children, as, breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate.  But Toinette could not speak.  She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.

“Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come?” asked the good mother alarmed.  She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened indoors.  The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in her lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had been again a little baby.  Gradually the sobs ceased.  For a while Toinette lay quiet, with her head on her mother’s breast.  Then she wiped her wet eyes, put her arms around her mother’s neck, and told her all from the very beginning, keeping not a single thing back.  The dame listened with alarm.

“Saints protect us,” she muttered.  Then feeling Toinette’s hands and head, “Thou hast a fever,” she said.  “I will make thee a tisane, my darling, and thou must at once go to bed.”  Toinette vainly protested; to bed she went and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink threw her into a long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual tasks.