"Why, how you've grown, my boy," she cried, holding me at arms' length, "you're so big and so strong! Oh, my Remi!" A stifled snort reminded me that Mattia was under the bed. I called him. He crept out. "This is Mattia," I said, "my brother." "Oh, then you've found your parents?" she cried. "No, he's my chum, but just like a brother. And this is Capi," I added, after she had greeted Mattia. "Come and salute your master's mother, Capitano." Capi got on his hind paws and bowed gravely to Mother Barberin. She laughed heartily. Her tears had quite vanished. Mattia made me a sign to spring our surprise. "Let's go and see how the garden looks," I said. "I have kept your bit just as you arranged it," she said, "for I knew that some day you would come back." "Did you get my Jerusalem artichokes?" "Ah, you planted them to surprise me! You always liked to give surprises, my boy." The moment had come. "Is the cowshed just the same since poor Rousette went?" I asked. "Oh, no; I keep my wood there now." We had reached the shed by this time. I pushed open the door and at once our cow, who was hungry, began to bellow. "A cow! A cow in my cowshed!" cried Mother Barberin. Mattia and I burst out laughing. "It's a surprise," I cried, "and a better one than the Jerusalem artichokes." She looked at me in a dazed, astonished manner. "Yes, it's a present for you. I did not come back with empty hands to the mamma who was so good to the little lost boy. This is to replace Rousette. Mattia and I bought it for you with the money we earned." "Oh, the dear boys!" she cried, kissing us both. She now went inside the shed to examine her present. At each discovery she gave a shriek of delight. "What a beautiful cow," she exclaimed. Then she turned round suddenly. "Say, you must be very rich now?" "I should say so," laughed Mattia; "we've got fifty-eight sous left." I ran to the house to fetch the milk pail, and while in the house I arranged the butter, eggs, and flour in a display on the table, then ran back to the shed. How delighted she was when she had a pail three-quarters full of beautiful frothy milk. There was another burst of delight when she saw the things on the table ready for pancakes, which I told her we were dying to have. "You must have known that Barberin was in Paris, then?" she said. I explained to her how I had learned so. "I will tell you why he has gone," she said, looking at me significantly. "Let's have the pancakes first," I said; "don't let's talk about him. I have not forgotten how he sold me for forty francs, and it was my fear of him, the fear that he would sell me again, that kept me from writing to tell you news of myself." "Oh, boy, I thought that was why," she said, "but you mustn't speak unkindly of Barberin." "Well, let's have the pancakes now," I said, hugging her.