The child flung his arms round Madeleine's neck, and turned so pale that she was surprised, and putting him down gently from her lap, tried to distract his attention. After a minute, he left her, and ran off to hide. The miller's wife felt some uneasiness, and making a search for him, she finally found him on his knees, in a corner of the barn, bathed in tears. "What does this mean, François?" said she, raising him up. "I don't know what is the matter with you. If you are thinking of your poor mother Zabelle, you had better say a prayer for her, and then you will feel more at rest." "No, no," said the child, twisting the end of Madeleine's apron, and kissing it with all his might. "Are not you my mother?" "Why are you crying then? You give me pain!" "Oh, no! oh, no! I am not crying," answered François, drying his eyes quickly, and looking up cheerfully; "I mean, I do not know why I was crying. Truly, I cannot understand it, for I am as happy as if I were in heaven." [Illustration] CHAPTER V FROM that day on Madeleine kissed the child, morning and evening, neither more nor less than if he had been her own, and the only difference she made between Jeannie and François was that the younger was the more petted and spoiled as became his age. He was only seven, while the waif was twelve, and François understood perfectly that a big boy like him could not be caressed like a little one. Besides, they were still more unlike in looks than in years. François was so tall and strong that he passed for fifteen, and Jeannie was small and slender like his mother, whom he greatly resembled. It happened one morning, when she had just received François's greeting on her door-step, and had kissed him as usual, her servant said to her: "I mean no offense, my good mistress, but it seems to me that boy is very big to let you kiss him as if he were a little girl." "Do you think so?" answered Madeleine, in astonishment. "Don't you know how young he is?" "Yes, and I should not see any harm in it, except that he is a waif, and though I am only your servant, I would not be hired to kiss any such riff-raff." "What you say is wrong, Catherine," returned Madame Blanchet; "and above all, you should not say it before the poor child." "She may say it, and everybody else may say it, too," replied François, boldly. "I don't care; if I am not a waif for you, Madame Blanchet, I am very well satisfied."