“It is a quiet, pleasant little home, Alaine,” said Gerard; “we owe it to Mère Michelle and Papa Louis that it is ours, is it not so?”
She came over to his side and leaned against the fence. “We owe them much, Gerard.”
“And because they have sacrificed themselves for us we should not show ourselves ungrateful.”
“You have worked with a good will, Gerard, side by side with Papa Louis in the garden, and, ciel! how many miles you must have walked in planting and tending the maize in the fields!”
“And you, Alaine, how your little hands have spun and scoured and toiled! You were not meant to do such things, my sister.”
“Nor were you, my brother.”
“Nor was Papa Louis meant to be a tiller of the ground. All of us save Mère Michelle have stepped out of the world in which our fathers lived. It was for us, I am sure, Alaine, that Papa Louis married. It was for me that he fled from France and became an émigré here in America. I well remember that flight in the dead of night, and the sound of the dragonnade. Papa Louis could have gone alone more easily, but he took me, who had not always been the most diligent of pupils.”
“And Mère Michelle could have escaped without me, but burden herself she would. And when I was ill, how she tended me on that long voyage over, and before that and since!”
“And myself the same. She is a good nurse, a good wife, a good mother, that Mère Michelle.”
“And Papa Louis always so cheerful, so gay, and never willing to admit failure. So ready to help with his little strength. He has been very good to us, a giant in love and faithfulness.”