They gathered a handful or two of these black berries, then began running after butterflies. The cherries were forgotten. An hour later, Simon, who was returning from the mill with his donkey, found two little children seated at the foot of the hedge, crying aloud and clasping each other. At their feet a lamb was lying and bleating plaintively. And the younger was saying to the other: “Joseph, get up; we will go home.” The elder tried to rise, but his legs, seized with a convulsive trembling, could not support him. “Joseph, Joseph, speak to me,” said the poor little one; “speak to me.” And Joseph, his teeth chattering, looked at his brother with eyes so big they frightened him. “There is one more apple in the basket; would you like it? I will give you all of it,” went on the little fellow, his cheeks bathed in tears. And the elder trembled and then became rigid, by fits and starts, and stared fixedly with eyes growing ever larger and larger. It was then that Simon passed. He put the two children on the donkey, took the basket, and, followed by the lamb, hastened to the village. When the unhappy mother saw Joseph, her dear Joseph, so well a few hours before, so rejoiced at taking his brother for a walk, and now unconscious, dying, it was a scene to melt the heart. “My God, my God!” cried she, crazed with grief, “take me and leave my son! Oh, my Joseph! Oh, my poor Joseph!” And, covering him with kisses, she burst into cries of despair. The doctor was summoned; the basket in which were still some of the black berries mistaken for cherries explained to him the cause of the sad event. “Deadly nightshade, great God!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Alas! It is too late.” Broken-hearted, he ordered a potion, the efficacy of which he could not count on, for the poison had made irreparable progress. And, in fact, an hour later, while the mother, on her knees at the foot of the bed, was praying and weeping, a little hand was stretched out from under the coverings and placed all cold in hers. It was the last good-by: Joseph was dead. The next day they buried the poor little one. The whole village attended the funeral. Emile and Jules returned from the cemetery so sad that for several days they did not think of asking their uncle the cause of this lamentable accident. Since then, in the house of mourning, little Louis stops playing every now and then and begins to cry, despite his beautiful tin watch. He has been told that Joseph has gone far away and that he will come back some day. “Mother,” he says sometimes, “when will Joseph come back? I am tired of playing alone.” His mother kisses him and, covering her face with a corner of her apron, sheds hot tears. “Don’t you love Joseph any more, and is that why you cry when I speak of him?” asks the poor little innocent. And his mother, overwhelmed, tries in vain to stifle her sobs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER LVIII