"Fleanism or not, this book is the work of a real man," rejoined the other.
"Never mind, father," said Catherine, with the admirable instinct of womankind: "I beg you to hide the book. It will get you into some bad scrape. I tremble merely to look at it."
"Why should it do me any harm, when it has not brought it on the writer?"
"How do you know that, father? This letter was written a week ago, and took all that time to arrive from Havre. But I had a letter this morning from Sebastian Gilbert, at Paris, who sends his love to his foster-brother—I forgot that—and he has been three days without his father meeting him there."
"She is right," said Pitou: "this delay is alarming."
"Hold your tongue, you timid creature; and let us read the doctor's treatise?" said the farmer: "It will not only make you larned, but manly."
Pitou stuck the book under his arm with so solemn a movement that it completed the winning of his protector's heart.
"Have you had your dinner?" asked he.
"No, sir," replied the youth.
"He was eating when he was driven from home," said the girl.