"I have been talking with M. Bellestre's notary. He thinks you should go to school. There are to be some schools started as soon as the autumn opens. You know you wanted to learn why the world was round, and about the great continent of Europe and a hundred interesting subjects."
"But, Monsieur, it is mostly prayers. I do not so much mind Sunday, for then there are people to see. But to have it every day—and the same things over and over—"
She gave a yawn that was half ridiculous grimace.
"Prayers, are very good, Mam'selle. While I am away I want you to pray for me that sometime God will bring me back safe and allow me to see you again. And I shall say when I see the sun rising on the other side of the world, 'It is night now in old Detroit and there is a little girl praying for me.'"
"O Monsieur, would you be glad?" Her eyes were suffused with a mistlike joy. "Then I will pray for you. That is so different from praying for people you don't know anything about, and to—to saints. I don't know them either. I feel as if they sat in long rows and just nodded to you."
"Pray to the good God, my child," he returned gravely. "And if you learn to read and write you might send me a letter."
Her eyes opened wide in amazement. "Oh, I could never learn enough for that!" she cried despairingly.
"Yes, you can, you will. M. Loisel will arrange it for you. And twice a week you will go to the sisters, I have promised Father Rameau. There will be plenty of time to run and play besides."
Jeanne Angelot looked steadily down on the ground. A caterpillar was dragging its length along and she touched it with her foot.
"It was once a butterfly. It will spin itself up in a web and hang somewhere all winter, and in the spring turn to a butterfly again."