“Let’s go and plant trees, shall we?” he exclaimed suddenly.  “I know how to make such pretty gardens.”

“Really, gardens!” murmured Pauline full of admiration.

Then, as the keeper of the square happened to be absent, Muche told her to make some holes in one of the borders; and dropping on her knees in the middle of the soft mould, and leaning forward till she lay at full length on her stomach, she dug her pretty little arms into the ground.  He, meantime, began to hunt for scraps of wood, and broke off branches.  These were the garden-trees which he planted in the holes that Pauline made.  He invariably complained, however, that the holes were not deep enough, and rated the girl as though she were an idle workman and he an indignant master.  When she at last got up, she was black from head to foot.  Her hair was full of mould, her face was smeared with it, she looked such a sight with her arms as black as a coalheaver’s that Muche clapped his hands with glee, and exclaimed:  “Now we must water the trees.  They won’t grow, you know, if we don’t water them.”

That was the finishing stroke.  They went outside the square, scooped the gutter-water up in the palms of their hands, and then ran back to pour it over the bits of wood.  On the way, Pauline, who was so fat that she couldn’t run properly, let the water trickle between her fingers on to her frock, so that by the time of her sixth journey she looked as if she had been rolled in the gutter.  Muche chuckled with delight on beholding her dreadful condition.  He made her sit down beside him under a rhododendron near the garden they had made, and told her that the trees were already beginning to grow.  He had taken hold of her hand and called her his little wife.

“You’re not sorry now that you came, are you,” he asked, “instead of mooning about on the pavement, where there was nothing to do?  I know all sorts of fun we can have in the streets; you must come with me again.  You will, won’t you?  But you mustn’t say anything to your mother, mind.  If you say a word to her, I’ll pull your hair the next time I come past your shop.”

Pauline consented to everything; and then, as a last attention, Muche filled both pockets of her pinafore with mould.  However, all the sweets were finished, and the girl began to get uneasy, and ceased playing.  Muche thereupon started pinching her, and she burst into tears, sobbing that she wanted to go away.  But at this the lad only grinned, and played the bully, threatening that he would not take her home at all.  Then she grew terribly alarmed, and sobbed and gasped like a maiden in the power of a libertine.  Muche would certainly have ended by punching her in order to stop her row, had not a shrill voice, the voice of Mademoiselle Saget, exclaimed, close by:  “Why, I declare it’s Pauline!  Leave her alone, you wicked young scoundrel!”

Then the old maid took the girl by the hand, with endless expressions of amazement at the pitiful condition of her clothes.  Muche showed no alarm, but followed them, chuckling to himself, and declaring that it was Pauline who had wanted to come with him, and had tumbled down.