Jean turned and shook his fists at him and then ran on. He was in no mood for a fight with his cousin just then. Little rosy clouds floated in the sky, the air was full of the scent of the warm earth and cool wind. Jean began to run. He ran on faster and faster. He liked to think that he was flying. He was going home to a bowl of hot soup and the comfort of his mother’s presence. As he ran through the wood, Jean began to feel very sorry indeed for his cousins. His mother was right. They had never had anything. He was sorry that he had not wanted to take them the bread. His mother’s cottage came into view as he reached the clearing in the wood. Mother Barbette was sitting on the doorstep knitting and the white deal table was drawn close to the door. When he came up to her he threw both arms around her and gave her a hug. “I am a good boy. I know I am, Petite Mère, because the lark answered when I called. It never does if I am naughty.” “Your soup is keeping hot over the fire. Dish it out carefully into your own blue bowl. There is a piece of bread on the table. You may eat it with your soup here at the table by the door. The night is so fine that I could not stay inside.” “I would rather sit on the doorstep beside you, Petite Mère,” Jean answered, bringing his porringer of soup, and sitting down at his mother’s feet. He did not talk at all until he had finished his soup and bread, for he was very hungry. When he was finished he went in and peered inside the stock pot, but there was no more soup. “I am still hungry, Petite Mère. I want more bread,” he complained, coming to the door. “You cannot have any more bread to-day. You have had enough. Perhaps when the Little Mademoiselle comes she will give you a piece of white bread and fig jam,” returned his mother. Jean’s face brightened and he leaned against his mother’s shoulder. “You will make the jam for the big house again this year. Little Mademoiselle and I will watch and taste and then take some bread and jam to the woods for a picnic. We shall go to our favorite spot near the sundial. I love it best of all, Petite Mère. It is all dark and woodsy and then there is suddenly the open clearing and the sundial!” Jean began to hop about the low-ceilinged room, from one end to the other. He would have liked to have jumped up on Mother Barbette’s treasure, her four-poster bed, but he did not dare to do so. “You are so young, Jean. Will you ever grow up? Ah, I cannot credit what Jacques told us, but it must be true. Those brave fellows from Provence marched all the way to Paris! Jacques left while they were storming the king’s palace! What times! What days!” Mother Barbette shook her head over her knitting. Then she remarked to Jean, “Your cousins were thankful for the bread, I’ll wager!” Jean nodded vigorously.