“The peddler said many things that were not true. Le Pont is sure that he could not have spoken the truth. No one would hurt me. I am not afraid,” she answered stoutly. “Maman and Lisle are in Paris. Have you forgotten Dian’s story about the prince in the dungeon. He has gone to help them, and so must I.” “What could you do for them?” Jean was so deeply interested that he spoke loudly, and Marie Josephine held up her hand warningly. “You must be silent about all this; it is to be a great secret between us.” She shook her finger at Pince Nez, who had perched himself on the top of Mother Barbette’s four-poster bed. “You are not to tell either, you naughty creature. I do not trust you. I think you are a witch in disguise!” This seemed so funny to Jean that he fairly doubled up with laughter, rocking back and forth and chuckling loudly. He was so excited that it made him laugh all the harder and his mother, who at this moment opened the door, stood and gazed at him in astonishment. “Why, you silly cabbage, you laugh like a clown. He is indeed a foolish feather head, is he not, Little Mademoiselle?” Mother Barbette put her arm tenderly about Marie Josephine and she hid her face on the broad, kind shoulder. “It is so dark and cold. Will summer ever come?” she said. Mother Barbette gave a reassuring little laugh. “Surely summer is coming, Little Mademoiselle, and with it the sunshine”—and her voice faltered a little as she went on—“and the dear ones who are away!” Something in Mother Barbette’s words comforted Marie Josephine. She gave her a hug and said: “I love you, Mother Barbette. I must run back now, for, as it is, I know that I shall be well scolded by Le Pont for being out after dark.” “Jean shall go with you through the wood, though there is never any fear for any one in our woods at Les Vignes, thank the kind God,” said Mother Barbette fervently. She stood in the low-arched doorway of the cottage watching the two children as they made their way toward their favorite wood path which led to the great house on the terrace. The two friends ran a little of the way and then suddenly Jean stopped in the middle of the path and caught Marie Josephine’s cloak in both his hands. A wild rabbit scudded through the snow, popping behind a glistening, frost-tinted bush. Jean called after it, and then turned back to look at his friend. “Listen, Little Mademoiselle. Don’t you know what I must do? When you go away to Paris in the spring I must go with you.” He, too, lowered his voice to a whisper, and he looked back over his shoulder, as though he feared that his mother might be right behind them, listening.