“No, Coucou Peter, no,” replied the Mayor of Dabo. “Thank God, everybody at home is well. We are going to thank St. Florent for having vouchsafed us a child. You know that my wife and I have been married for five years without having had that happiness: at last my wife said to me, ‘Listen to me, Hans—we must make a pilgrimage; all the wives who make a pilgrimage have children!’ I thought there was no use in it. ‘Bah!’ I said, ‘that’s no good, Thérèse—and, besides, I can’t leave the house; it’s just harvest time; I can’t give up everything.’ ‘Well, then, I’ll go alone,’ she said to me; ‘you are an unbeliever, Hans Aden, and you’ll end badly!’ ‘Well, go by yourself, then, Thérèse,’ I said to her, ‘and we shall see which of us is right!’ Good!—she went; and imagine, Coucou Peter, just nine months after came a baby!—a big, fat baby; the finest and handsomest boy-baby of the mountain! From that time all the women of Dabo have been wanting to make pilgrimages.” Coucou Peter had listened with singular attention to this story; suddenly he raised his head and said— “And how long is it since Dame Thérèse went on her pilgrimage?” “It was this day two years,” replied Hans Aden. “Two years!” cried Coucou Peter, turning pale, and supporting himself against a tree; “two years!” “What’s the matter with you?” asked Hans Aden. “Nothing, Maître Hans—nothing; it’s a weakness that comes into my legs whenever I sit too long.” At the same time he looked at little Thérèse, who looked down and became as red as a cherry. She appeared shy, and took up the child to give him the breast; but before she had untied the fastenings, Coucou Peter advanced, exclaiming— “Ah, Maître Hans Aden!—how lucky you are! Everything succeeds with you!—You are the richest herr of the mountain; you have fields and meadows, and here St. Florent sends you the handsomest child in the world! I must have a good look at the little fellow,” he said, taking off his hat to Dame Thérèse; “I’m in love with all the little ones!” “Stand on no ceremony, Coucou Peter,” cried the mayor, proudly; “anybody may see him—there’s no affront!” “Kiss him, Monsieur Coucou Peter,” said Dame Thérèse, in a low tone; “kiss him—isn’t he a beauty?” “Beautiful!” cried Coucou Peter, while two big tears streamed slowly down his red cheeks—“beautiful!—what fists! what a chest! what a laughing face!” He held the child up, and contemplated it with open eyes; one might have thought he was never going to give it back; the mother turned away her head to dry a tear. At last the merry fiddler himself put back the little one into the pannier, carefully raising the pillow before laying him down upon it. “Look you, Dame Thérèse,” he whispered, “children like to have their heads high—don’t forget that.” He then buckled the strap and laughed with the pretty little mother, while tall Hans Aden stood a few paces off, cutting a hazel switch into a whistle.