Now and then, as the cottage door swung open on the dame’s various errands, one might hear a faint “Baa, baa!” from the sheepfold, where little Félix Michaud was very busy also. Through the crevices of its weather-beaten boards came the sound of vigorous scrubbing of wool, and sometimes an impatient “Ninette! Ninette!—thou silly sheep! Wilt thou never stand still?” Or else, in a softer tone, an eager “Beppo, my little Beppo, dost thou know? Dost thou know?” To all of which there would come no answer save the lamb’s weak little “Baa, baa!” For Ninette, Beppo’s mother, was a silly old sheep, and Beppo was a very little lamb; and so they could not possibly be expected to know what a great honor had suddenly befallen them. They did not dream that, the night before, Père Michaud had told Félix that his Beppo (for Beppo was Félix’s very own) had been chosen by the shepherds for the “offered lamb” of the Christmas Eve procession when the holy midnight mass would be celebrated in all its festival splendor in the great church of the village. Of the importance of this procession in the eyes of the peasant folk it is difficult to say enough. To be the offered lamb, or indeed the offered lamb’s mother, for both always went together, was the greatest honor and glory that could possibly happen to a Provençal sheep, and so little Félix was fairly bursting with pride and delight. And so it was, too, that he was now busying himself washing their wool, which he determined should shine like spun silver on the great night. He tugged away, scrubbing and brushing and combing the thick fleeces, now and then stopping to stroke Beppo’s nose, or to box Ninette’s ears when she became too impatient, and at last, after much labor, considered their toilets done for the day; then, giving each a handful of fresh hay to nibble, he left the fold and trudged into the cottage. “Well, little one,” said the Misè, “hast thou finished thy work?” “Yes, mother,” answered Félix; “and I shall scrub them so each day till the Holy Night! Even now Ninette is white as milk, and Beppo shines like an angel! Ah, but I shall be proud when he rides up to the altar in his little cart! And, mother, dost thou not really think him far handsomer than was Jean’s lamb, that stupid Nano, in the procession last year?” “There, there,” said the Misè, “never thou mind about Jean’s lamb, but run along now and finish thy crèche.” [Illustration]