Helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself; not one did she offer to her step-sister. Being tired of strawberries, on the third day she took a fancy for some fresh red apples.
“Run, Marouckla,” said she, “and fetch me fresh red apples from the mountain.”
“Apples in winter, sister? why, the trees have neither leaves nor fruit.”
“Idle slut, go this minute,” said Helen; “unless you bring back apples we will kill you.”
As before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her out of the house. The poor girl went weeping up the mountain, across the deep snow upon which lay no human footprint, and on towards the fire round which were the twelve months. Motionless sat they, and on the highest stone was the great Setchène.
“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me,” said she, drawing near.
The great Setchène raised his head.
“Why com’st thou here? What dost thou seek?” asked he.
“I am come to look for red apples,” replied Marouckla.
“But this is winter, and not the season for red apples,” observed the great Setchène.