He knew she was weeping, and certainly her poor heart must have been full of sorrow that she should give way to such silent grief. The good _curé_ could no longer restrain himself; he advanced gently behind her, and, when quite near, touched her on the shoulder, just as he had done in former days, when he wished to surprise her in some school‐girl’s trick. Jeanne turned around, and he saw her pretty face bathed in tears. “Oh! oh!” said the kind pastor, smiling, “what are you doing, my daughter? I wager you are the only one who is not rejoicing to‐day in the bright sunshine that the good God gives us.” “Father,” said the little thing, who always thus addressed our _curé_ when they were alone, “it is perhaps very wrong, but it is precisely all this joy I see around me that breaks my heart. When I reached the well, I thought how often Jean‐Louis had come to this very place to draw water for us, and how displeased he was when my mother wished to do it herself. Poor Jeannet! he was so gentle and kind! Oh! I am sure he is unhappy away from home.” “That is not doubtful,” replied the _curé_; “but perhaps one day we will see him again.” “I begin to despair of it,” said she. “He left heart‐broken, and perhaps now he detests me.” “Perhaps? Perhaps, my daughter, can mean yes as well as no; why should it not be no?” “Ah! if I only knew!” said she. “Well, what would you do?” “I would write to him that I love him,” she cried, clasping her hands; “and I would beg him to come and tell me that he pardons me, and take his place again at home; for the house will always be his, whether I live or die; and although I have done very wrong, he would listen to me, don’t you think so, father?” “Yes,” said the _curé_, much touched; “he is a person who never cherished rancor against any one. Write to him, my child, and tell him all you wish; your letter will reach him.” “Ah! you know where he is? I thought so,” said she joyfully. “Yes, indeed! I know where he is, and I will now tell you, my dear daughter. He is in Paris, where he wants for nothing; and if you are good, if you will stop crying, I will read you some of his letters, which will make you happy.” “Oh! I promise you that I will be good. I will not cry any more—never again,” cried the poor little creature, who instantly began to sob, by way of keeping her promise. But they were tears of joy this time, and the _curé_ let them flow without reproof. They entered Muiceron together, and Jeannette, without any preambulation, threw herself on her mother’s breast, crying out that Jeannet was coming back. Pierrette, who desired it as ardently as she, asked to be excused for one moment, that she might run off and tell Ragaud, who was sowing clover near the house. It was right that they should be all together to hear such welcome news; but scarcely had the good woman reached the door, than she knocked against Jacques Michou, who had just crossed the threshold.