“And you will not walk back?” said Pierre to Alaine, as they were making ready for the return.
She shook her head. “No; twenty-three miles in one day quite satisfies me, but I enjoyed it and the pot à feu, honey and all.”
“What do you say, my daughter?” Mère Michelle’s alert ears caught the last words.
“Nothing important, maman; I but discussed the difference between the pot à feu of those from Rouen and those from La Rochelle. Pierre there likes to put a sprinkling of honey in his.”
Mère Michelle looked mystified.
“It is but some of Alaine’s mischief,” said Gerard, seeing the expression on Pierre’s face. “Come, climb in, Alaine; we must be off.” And the long journey home began.
CHAPTER IV
THE CIDER FROLIC
“Come, come, step up, my dear,” Mère Michelle said so often, one morning a few weeks later, that Alaine realized with a start that she was less virtuously energetic than usual. “So triste, my little one, or is it that you are fatigued from yesterday’s labors? I feared that you were going beyond your strength out there in the field.”
“No, no,” protested Alaine, “I have seldom enjoyed anything more. It was so pleasant there out under the blue sky, but one has so many things to think about as one grows older. I will hasten to finish my daily tasks, and then I wish to see Mathilde Duval.”
Mère Michelle looked at her sharply. “It is not well for a lass to frequent the home of a young man,” she said.