"My good friend Petie, whose mother is with the saints. Then Mere Jeanne, she take all our hands, after she has her weep; she say 'Come!' and we go up ze street, up, up, till we come to Mere Jeanne's house." "Tell about the house!" I cried. "Holy Cric! what a house!" cried Mere-Marie, clapping her hands together. "It is stone, painted white, clean, like new cheese; the roof beautiful, straw, warm, thick,--ah! what roofs! I have tried to teach thy father to make them, but no! Inside, it is dark and warm, and full wiz good smells. Now it is the _pot-au-feu_, but not every day zis, for Mere Jeanne is poor; but always somesing, fish to fry, or pancakes, or apples. But zis time, Mere Jeanne make me a _fete_; she say, 'It is the _Fete Marie_!' "She make the fire bright, bright; and she bring big chestnuts, two handfuls of zem, and set zem on ze shovel to roast; and zen she put ze greedle, and she mixed ze batter in a great bowl--it is yellow, that bowl, and the spoon, it is horn. She show it to me, she say, 'Wat leetle child was eat wiz this spoon, Marie? hein?' and I--I kiss the spoon; I say, '_'Tite Marie, Mere Jeanne! 'Tite Marie qui t'aime!_'[2] It is the first words I could say of my life, _mes enfants_! "Zen she laugh, and nod her head, and she stir, stir, stir till ze bobbles come--" "The way they do when you make griddle-cakes, Mere-Marie?" "Ah! no! much, much, thousand time better, Mere Jeanne make zem! She toss them--so! wiz ze spoon, and they shine like gold, and when they come down--hop!--they say 'Sssssssssss!' that they like to fry for Mere Jeanne, and for Marie, and _p'tit Jacques_, and good Petie. Then I bring out the black table, and I know where the bread live, and the cheese, and while the cakes fry, I go to milk the cow--ah! the pearl of cows, children, white like her own cream, fat like a boiled chestnut, good like an angel! She has not forgotten Marie, she rub her nose in my heart, she sing to me. I take her wiz both my arms, I weep--ah! but it is joy, _p'tit Jacques_! it is wiz joy I weep! Zen, again in ze house, and round ze table, we all sit, and we eat, and eat, that we can eat no more. And Mere Jeanne say: "'Tell me of thy home, Marie!' and I tell all, all; of thy father Jacques, how he good, and great, and handsome as Saint Michael; and how my house is fine, fine, and how Abiroc is good. And Mere Jeanne, she make the great eyes; she cry, 'Ah! the good fortune! Ah, Marie, that thou art fortunate, that thou art happy!'