She, seated by his side, was occupied, not in marking, but in unmarking some linen stolen the night previous. She was nine years old, and resembled her brother as much as her sister did her mother; her features, without being any more regular, were less coarse than Francois'; although covered with freckles, her skin was of dazzling purity; her lips were thick, but vermilion, her hair red, but fine, silky, and brilliant; her eyes small, but soft and expressive. When they exchanged looks, Amandine pointed to the door; at the sign Francois answered by a sigh; then, calling the attention of his sister by a rapid gesture, he counted distinctly from the end of his netting needle ten threads of the net. This meant, in their own symbolical language, that their brother Martial would not return before ten o'clock. On seeing these two quiet, wicked-looking women, and these two poor, restless, mute, trembling little children, one could easily guess they were two tormentors and two victims. Calabash, noticing that Amandine had ceased a moment from work, said to her, in a harsh voice, "Will you soon have done with that chemise?" The child held down her head without replying; with fingers and scissors, she quickly finished picking out the marks made with red cotton, and then handing the work to her mother, said timidly, "Mamma, I have finished it." Without making any reply, the widow threw her another piece of linen. The child could not catch it in time, and let it fall. Her sister gave her, with her iron hand, a heavy slap on the arm, saying "Little stupid fool!" Amandine resumed her work, after having exchanged a hasty glance with her brother; a tear glistened in her eye. The same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. The wind howled without, and the sign creaked mournfully on its hinges. The only sounds within were the bubbling of a saucepan placed before the fire. The two children observed with secret alarm that their mother did not speak. Although she was habitually very quiet, this complete taciturnity and certain contractions of her lips announced that the widow was in that which they called her white rage, that is to say, a prey to some concentrated irritation. The fire appeared to be going out from want of fuel. "Francois, a stick of wood!" said Calabash. The young net-mender looked behind the chimney-piece, and answered, "There is no more there." "Go to the wood-pile," said Calabash. Francois murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir. "Francois, did you hear me?" said Calabash sharply. The widow placed on her knees a napkin, which she was unmarking, and looked at her son. He had his head down, but he thought he felt the terrible look of his mother was upon him. Fearing to meet her formidable face, the child remained immovable. "Are you deaf, Francois'?" resumed Calabash, much irritated. "Mother--do you see?"