While the little girl was scolding him, a voice from within the caravan called out: "Perrine!" Jumping to her feet, the child lifted up the canvas and passed inside, where a pale, thin woman was lying on a mattress. "Do you need me, mama?" "What is Palikare doing, dear?" asked the woman. "He is eating the straw off the cart that's ahead of us." "You must stop him." "He's so hungry." "Hunger is not an excuse for taking what does not belong to us. What will you say to the driver of that cart if he's angry?" "I'll go and see that Palikare doesn't do it again," said the little girl. "Shall we soon be in Paris?" "Yes, we are waiting for the customs." "Have we much longer to wait?" "No, but are you in more pain, mother?" "Don't worry, darling; it's because I'm closed in here," replied the woman, gasping. Then she smiled wanly, hoping to reassure her daughter. The woman was in a pitiable plight. All her strength had gone and she could scarcely breathe. Although she was only about twenty-nine years of age, her life was ebbing away. There still remained traces of remarkable beauty: Her head and hair were lovely, and her eyes were soft and dark like her daughter's. "Shall I give you something?" asked Perrine. "What?" "There are some shops near by. I can buy a lemon. I'll come back at once." "No, keep the money. We have so little. Go back to Palikare and stop him from eating the straw." "That's not easy," answered the little girl. She went back to the donkey and pushed him on his haunches until he was out of reach of the straw in front of him. At first the donkey was obstinate and tried to push forward again, but she spoke to him gently and stroked him, and kissed him on his nose; then he dropped his long ears with evident satisfaction and stood quite still. There was no occasion to worry about him now, so she amused herself with watching what was going on around her. A little boy about her own age, dressed up like a clown, and who evidently belonged to the circus caravans standing in the rear, had been strolling round her for ten long minutes, without being able to attract her attention. At last he decided to speak to her. "That's a fine donkey," he remarked. She did not reply. "It don't belong to this country. If it does, I'm astonished." She was looking at him, and thinking that after all he looked rather like a nice boy, she thought she would reply. "He comes from Greece," she said. "Greece!" he echoed. "That's why he's called Palikare." "Ah! that's why." But in spite of his broad grin he was not at all sure why a donkey that came from Greece should be called Palikare. "Is it far ... Greece?" "Very far." "Farther than ... China?" "No, but it's a long way off." "Then yer come from Greece, then?" "No, farther than that." "From China?" "No, but Palikare's the only one that comes from Greece." "Are you going to the Fair?" "No." "Where yer goin'?" "Into Paris."