"What am I to work at?" whined he. "My aunt and Father Fortier have repeated a hundred times that I am good for nothing. Ah! if I had been bound prentice to a wheelwright or a carpenter, instead of their trying to make a priest of me. Upon my faith, Miss Catherine, a curse is on me!" said he with a wave of the hand in desperation. "Alack!" sighed the girl who knew like everybody the orphan's melancholy tale: "there is truth in what you say, my poor Pitou. But there is one thing you might do." "Do tell me what that is?" cried the youth, jumping towards the coming suggestion as a drowning man leaps for a twig of willow. "You have a guardian in Dr. Gilbert, whose son is your schoolfellow." "I should rather think he was, and by the same token I have taken many floggings for him." "Why not apply to his father, who, certainly, will not shake you off?" "That would be all right if I knew where to address him; but your father may know as he farms some of his land." "I know that he sends some of the rent to America and banks the other part here at a notary's." "America is a far cry," moaned Pitou. "What, would you start for America?" exclaimed the maid, almost frightened at his courage. "Me? Sakes! No, never! France is good enough for me if I could get enough to eat and drink." "Very well," said she, falling into silence which lasted some time. The lad was plunged into a thoughtful mood which would have much puzzled Teacher Fortier the logical man. Starting from Obscurity, the reverie brightened and then grew confused again, like lightning. Younker had started in again for the walk home, and Pitou, with a hand on one basket, trudged on beside it. As dreamy as her neighbor, Catherine let the bridle drop with no fear about being run away with. There were no monsters on the highway and Younker bore no resemblance to the fabulous hippogriffs. The walker stopped mechanically when the animal did, which was at the farm. "Hello, is this you, Pitou?" challenged a strong-shouldered man, proudly stationed before a drinking pool where his horse was swilling. "It is me, Master Billet." "He's had another mishap," said the maid, jumping off the horse without any heed as to showing her ankles. "His aunt has sent him packing." "What has he done to worry the old bigot this time?" queried the farmer. "It appears that I am not good enough in Greek," said the scholar, who was lying, for it was Latin he was a bungler at. "What do you want to be good at Greek for?" asked the broad-shouldered man. "To explain Theocritus and read the Iliad. These are useful when you want to be a priest." "Trash!" said Billet. "Do you need Greek and Latin? do I know my own language--can I read or write? but this does not prevent me plowing, sowing and reaping." "But you, Master Billet, are a cultivator and not a priest: 'Agricole,' says Virgil----"