Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer. “Very good,” said Mother Maurice, “I shall let you alone for to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possibly your sister-in-law will question you more cleverly.” And she picked up her basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes. Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see that they are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and at length, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette. Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person she would have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and made her comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, she stretched out her basket toward him and said: “Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, and come and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fully decided?” “Alas, dear mother, you mustn’t speak in that way. I should be decided if I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have only made up my mind to cure myself, if I can.” “And if you can’t.” “There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is laden too heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies.” “Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grant not, Germain. I don’t like to hear a man like you talk of those things; for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weakness is dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can’t conceive that a poverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her to marry you, will refuse you.” “Yet it’s the truth: she does refuse me.” “And what reasons does she give you?” “That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a great deal to yours, and that she doesn’t wish to displease you by turning me away from a rich marriage.” “If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honest girl she is. But, Germain, she doesn’t cure you; for of course she tells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?” “That’s the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never be mine.” “If she says what she doesn’t think in order to keep you at a safer distance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youth on account of her great good sense.” “Yes,” said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; “that would be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I am sure it is because I displease her.” “Germain,” said Mother Maurice, “you must promise me not to worry for a whole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay as you used to be. For my part, I’ll speak to my husband, and if I gain his consent, you shall know the girl’s real feelings toward you.”