"Leave me? Oh! no, no. I will go with you; it is agreed. See, my little bundle is all ready, and I am making up yours. Do not be uneasy; let me fix everything, and you will be satisfied." Hullin stood stupefied. "But, Louise," he cried, "you are dreaming. Think, my child! We must pass long winter nights without a roof to cover us; we must bear hardship, fatigue, cold, snow, hunger, and countless dangers! A musket-ball would mar my pretty bird's beauty." {174} "You are only trying your little Louise," cried she, now in tears, and flinging herself upon his neck. "You will not leave me here alone." "But you will be better here; you will have a good fire and food. Besides, you will receive news of us every day." "No, no! I will go with you; I care not for cold. And I have been shut up here too long; I want the fresh air. The birds are out; the redbreasts are out all winter; and did I not know what hunger was when a child? Mother Lefevre says I may go; and will you whom I love so much be more cruel than she?" Brave Jean-Claude sat down, his heart full of bitter sorrow. He turned away his head that she might not see the struggle going on within, while Louise eagerly continued: "I will be safe; I will follow you. The cold! What is the cold to me? And if you should be wounded--if you should wish to see your little Louise for the last time, and she not be near to take care of you--to love you to the last! Oh! you must think me hard-hearted!" She sobbed; Hullin could hold out no longer. "Is it indeed true that Mother Lefevre consents?" he asked. "Yes, yes, oh! yes, she told me so; she said, 'Try to get Father Jean-Claude to let you; I am satisfied.'" "Well," said the sabot-maker, smiling sadly, "I can do little against two. You shall come! It is agreed." The cottage echoed with her cry of joy, and with one sweep of her hand her tears were dried, and her face, like an April sky, beamed in smiles. "You are a little gypsy still," cried Hullin, shaking his head. "Go trap a swallow." Then, drawing her to him, he continued: "Look you, Louise: it is now twelve years since I found you in the snow. You were blue with the cold, poor child; and when I brought you to the fire and warmed you, the first thing you did was to smile at me, and since that day your smile has ruled old Jean-Claude. But let us look at our bundles," said the good man with a sigh. "Are they well fastened?" He approached the bed, and saw in wonder his warmest coats, his flannel jackets, all well brushed, well folded, and well packed. Then in Louise's bundle were her best dresses and her thick shoes. He could not restrain a laugh, as he cried: "O gypsy, gypsy! It takes you to pack up." Louise smiled. "Then you are satisfied with them?" she asked. "I must be; but in the midst of all this fine work, you did not think, I'll wager, of getting ready my supper." "That is soon done," said she, "although I did not know you would return to-night, Papa Jean-Claude."