Several times within the last two months, little Henri--now going on for four years old--had come toddling down to the cottage by himself, to his aunt’s unbounded amazement and delight. “Maman is at market,” he explained with dignity the first time, in answer to the wondering queries. “Papa yoked the oxen to the big cart after dinner, and they went; Anna is talking all the afternoon to Pierre Puyoo in the road; and Henri was alone. So Henri came; Henri loves his aunt, and would like some biscuits.” Great was the content of that hour in the cottage, when Jeanne-Marie sat in the big arm-chair, and the boy prattled and ate his biscuits on her knee. Anna’s hard young smile, that scorned emotion, was always a _gêne_ to this harmony of old and young; also, there was no need to glance anxiously at the clock; for the oxen take two hours to get home from the market, and who leaves the town till late in the afternoon? “Anna will miss _le petit_,” Jeanne-Marie suggested the first time; but he answered proudly: “She will think _le petit_ takes care of the geese in the meadow; do I not have charge of all the geese many afternoons? And when I am six years old, papa has promised I may guard the cows, and bring them home to milk at sundown, as André Puyoo and Georges Vidal do, each day. Also, why cannot Henri come to see _la tante_ when he likes?” But nevertheless, the second and third occasions of these happy visits, always on market-days, Jeanne-Marie became uneasy. Did Suzanne know of the boy’s absences? Were those fitful jealousies she now displayed almost every Sunday, the result of her knowledge? And if she did not know, would there not be a burst of rage when she heard? Should Jeanne-Marie risk this joy by telling her of its existence, and asking her permission for its continuance? How well the hard tones of Suzanne’s voice, framing each plausible objection, came to her mind, as she thought. No, she could not do it. Let the child come, and go on coming every market-day, for as long as he could. She would say no word to encourage his keeping it secret from his mother; he would tell her one day, if he had not told her already, and then, if anger there was, surely the simple words, “May not your child visit his aunt alone?” must bring peace again. So Jeanne-Marie reasoned away her fears. But now, as she stood in her garden, her lips were trembling with anxiety. Last Sunday she had been too ill to go up to the farm. A sudden agonising breathlessness, together with great dizziness, had forced her to bed, and Marthe’s boy had gone up with the message. But neither that day nor the next, which was market-day, nor any following day, had Suzanne, or Anna, or little Henri come to see her. And to-day was Saturday. And she realised wearily that to-morrow she could not get to the farm; she felt too ill and feeble. “My heart aches,” she said to Marthe each day, “my heart aches.”