FROM that day on Madeleine kissed the child, morning and evening,
neither more nor less than if he had been her own, and the only
difference she made between Jeannie and François was that the younger
was the more petted and spoiled as became his age. He was only seven,
while the waif was twelve, and François understood perfectly that a big
boy like him could not be caressed like a little one. Besides, they were
still more unlike in looks than in years. François was so tall and
strong that he passed for fifteen, and Jeannie was small and slender
like his mother, whom he greatly resembled.
It happened one morning, when she had just received François's greeting
on her door-step, and had kissed him as usual, her servant said to her:
"I mean no offense, my good mistress, but it seems to me that boy is
very big to let you kiss him as if he were a little girl."
"Do you think so?" answered Madeleine, in astonishment. "Don't you know
how young he is?"
"Yes, and I should not see any harm in it, except that he is a waif, and
though I am only your servant, I would not be hired to kiss any such
riff-raff."
"What you say is wrong, Catherine," returned Madame Blanchet; "and above
all, you should not say it before the poor child."
"She may say it, and everybody else may say it, too," replied François,
boldly. "I don't care; if I am not a waif for you, Madame Blanchet, I am
very well satisfied."
"Only hear him!" said the servant. "This is the first time I ever knew
him to talk so much at once. Then you know how to put two or three words
together, do you, François? I really thought you could not even
understand what other people said. If I had known that you were
listening, I should not have spoken before you as I did, for I have no
idea of hurting your feelings. You are a good, quiet, obliging boy.
Come, you must not think of it any more; if it seems odd to me for our
mistress to kiss you, it is only because you are too big for it, and so
much coddling makes you look sillier than you really are."
Having tried to mend matters in this way, big Catherine set about making
her soup, and forgot all about what had passed.
The waif followed Madeleine to the place where she did her washing, and
sitting down beside her, he spoke as he knew how to speak with her and
for her alone.
"Do you remember, Madame Blanchet," said he, "how I was here once, long
ago, and you let me go to sleep in your shawl?"
"Yes, my child," said she, "it was the first time we ever saw each
other."
"Was it the first time? I was not certain, for I cannot recollect very
well; when I think of that time, it is all like a dream. How many years
ago is it?"
"It is--wait a minute--it is nearly six years, for my Jeannie was
fourteen months old."
"So I was not so old then as he is now? When he has made his first
communion, do you think he will remember all that is happening to him
now?"
"Oh! yes, I shall be sure to remember," cried Jeannie.
"That may be so or not," said François. "What were you doing yesterday
at this hour?"
Jeannie was startled, and opened his mouth to answer; then he stopped
short, much abashed.
"Well! I wager that you cannot give a better account of yourself,
either," said the miller's wife to François. She always took pleasure
in listening to the prattle of the two children.
"I?" said the waif, embarrassed, "wait a moment--I was going to the
fields, and passed by this very place--I was thinking of you. Indeed, it
was yesterday that the day when you wrapped me up in your shawl came
into my mind."
"You have a good memory, and it is surprising that you can remember so
far back. Can you remember that you were ill with fever?"
"No, indeed!"
"And that you carried home my linen without my asking you?"
"No."
"I have always remembered it, because that was the way I found out how
good your heart was."
"I have a good heart too, haven't I, mother?" said little Jeannie,
presenting his mother with an apple which he had half eaten.
"To be sure you have, and you must try to copy François in all the good
things you see him do."
"Oh, yes!" answered the child quickly, "I shall jump on the yellow colt
this evening, and shall ride it into pasture."
"Shall you?" said François, laughing. "Are you, too, going to climb up
the great ash-tree to hunt tomtits? I shall let you do it, my little
fellow! But listen, Madame Blanchet, there is something I want to ask of
you, but I do not know whether you will tell it to me."
"Let me hear."
"Why do they think they hurt my feelings when they call me a waif? Is
there any harm in being a waif?"
"No; certainly not, my child, since it is no fault of yours."
"Whose fault is it?"
"It is the fault of the rich people."
"The fault of the rich people! What does that mean?"
"You are asking a great many questions to-day; I shall answer you by and
by."
"No, no; right away, Madame Blanchet."
"I cannot explain it to you. In the first place, do you know yourself
what it is to be a waif?"
"Yes; it is being put in a foundling asylum by your father and mother,
because they have no money to feed you and bring you up."
"Yes, that is it. So you see that there are people so wretched as not to
be able to bring up their own children, and that is the fault of the
rich who do not help them."
"You are right!" answered the waif very thoughtfully. "Yet there are
some good rich people, since you are one, Madame Blanchet, and it is
only necessary to fall in their way."
[Illustration]