Then making her sit on his knees:--"Louise, it is now twelve years since I found thee in the snow: thou wast blue, poor little one. And when we were in the cottage, near a good fire, and thou wert slowly reviving, the first thing thou didst was to smile at me. And since that time thy will has always been mine. With that smile thou hast led me wherever thou wouldst." Then Louise began again to smile at him, and they embraced each other. "Now we will look at the packages," he said, sighing. "Are they well made, I wonder?" He approached the bed, and was surprised to see his warmest clothes, his flannel-waistcoats, all well brushed, folded, and packed; and Louise's bundle, with her best dresses, petticoats, and stout shoes, in nice order. At last he could not help laughing and crying out--"O gypsy, gypsy! you are the one for making fine bundles, and going away without ever turning the head." Louise smiled. "Are you satisfied?" "I suppose I must be. But during all this piece of work, I will venture to say thou hast never thought of preparing my supper." "Oh, it will soon be ready. I did not know you would return this evening, Papa Jean-Claude." "That is true, my child. Bring me something--no matter what--quickly, for I am hungry. Meanwhile I shall smoke a pipe." "Yes, that's it; smoke a pipe." He sat down on the side of the bench and struck the tinder-box quite dreamily. Louise rushed right and left like a sprite, seeing to the fire, breaking the eggs, and turning out an omelette with surprising celerity. Never had she appeared so lively, smiling, and pretty. Hullin, his elbow on the table and his face in his hand, watched her gravely, thinking how much will, firmness, and resolution there was in this girl--as light as a fairy, yet determined as a hussar. In a few seconds she served him with the omelette on a large china plate, with bread, and the glass and bottle. "There, Papa Jean-Claude, be hungry no longer." She observed him eating with a look of tenderness. The flame sprang up in the stove, lighting clearly the low beams, the wooden stair in the shadow, the bed at the end of the alcove, the whole of the abode, so often cheered by the joyous humor of the shoemaker, the little songs of his daughter, and the industry of both. And all this Louise was leaving without any hesitation: she cared only for the woods, the snow-covered paths, and the endless mountains, reaching from the village into Switzerland, and even beyond. Ah, Master Jean-Claude had reason to cry "gypsy, gypsy!" The swallow cannot be tamed: it needs the open air, the broad sky--continual motion. Neither storms, nor wind, nor rain in torrents frighten it, when the hour of its departure is at hand. It has only one thought, one desire, one cry--"Let us away! Let us away." The meal finished, Hullin rose and said to his daughter, "I am tired, my child; kiss me, and let us go to bed."