"And Pani belongs to me," declared Rose.
Pierre turned to look at the girl. Her beauty stirred him strangely. Sometimes, when his father sang the old songs of home, the same quiver went through every pulse.
"I'm sorry," he said, in a gentler tone. "Now I must go back to my chair."
"Is it to be a chair?"
"I can't weave the grasses just right, though some one showed me, only I was thinking of other things."
"Let's see." Pani was a little mollified.
They went back to the boy's work.
"I'm only making a little one for Marie. Then I shall try a larger one. There are two in the room."
Yes, Rose knew them well. The place was about the same, with the great bunk on one side and the smaller one on the other. Mère Dubray's bright blankets were gone, with the pictures of the Virgin, and the high candlestick, that was alight on certain days. Little mattresses filled with dried grass were piled on top of the bunk. It looked like, and yet unlike. Rose was glad she did not live here.
Pani inspected the boy's work.