She hesitated by his side, half in mind to speak to him, to tell him that she knew his trouble, and had faith in him, but his bowed head was forbidding in its solitude. All about the hut, under the spreading trees, was a stretch of coarse green sod, dotted with tiny yellow flowers and black-centred daisies. She wandered over the grass, gathering them until her hands were full. Two red boys came by, and paused to cry at her, taunting her as if she, too, were to meet the fate of a war captive. The thought made her shudder, but then, on an impulse, she called to them in their own language. They looked at each other in surprise. She walked toward them, laying down the flowers, and holding out her hand. A little later, when Menard looked up, he saw her sitting beneath a gnarled oak, a boy on either side eagerly watching her. She was talking and laughing with them, and teaching them to make a screeching pipe with grass-blades held between the thumbs. He envied her her elastic spirits. "You have made two friends," he called in French. She looked up and nodded, laughing. "They are learning to make the music of the white brothers." The boys' faces had sobered at the sound of his voice. They looked at him doubtfully, and then at each other. He got up and walked slowly toward them. "I will make friends, too, Mademoiselle," he said, smiling. "We have none too many here." Before he had taken a dozen steps, the boys arose. He held out his hands, saying, "Your father would be friends with his children." But they began to retreat, a step at a time. "Come, my children," said the maid, smiling at the words as she uttered them. "The white father is good. He will not hurt you." They kept stepping backward until he had reached the maid's side; then, with a shout of defiance, they scampered away. In the distance they stopped, and soon were the centre of a group of children whom they taught to blow on the grass-blades, with many a half-frightened glance toward Menard and the maid. "There," he said, at length, "you may see the advantage of a reputation." She looked at him, and, moved by the pathos underlying the words, could not, for the moment, reply. "I once had a home in this village," he added. "It stood over there, in the bare spot near the beech tree." His eyes rested on the spot for a moment, then he turned back to the hut. "M'sieu," she said shyly. The little heap of flowers lay where she had dropped them; and, taking them up, she arranged them hastily and held them out. "Won't you take them?" He looked at her, a little surprised, then held out his hand. "Why,--thank you. I don't know what I can do with them." They walked back together. "You must wear some of the daisies, Mademoiselle. They will look well." She looked down at her torn, stained dress, and laughed softly; but took the white cluster he gave her, and thrust the stems through a tattered bit of lace on her breast.