For the moment she was intent on her work, and not prepared to listen to Laurent's tender reproaches. The weeds were many, and despite the earliness of the year had already become rank. She had been humming a little ditty quietly to herself: "Et ron et ron! petit Pataplon! Il était une bergère!" But now, when she heard Laurent's footsteps on the path behind her, the song died upon her lips. She made pretence not to hear his coming, nor did she turn her head in his direction until he called her name:
"Fernande!"
Even then she appeared too busy to do more than respond quite calmly: "Yes, Laurent. Is that you?"
Then, as he remained silent, and seemed to have come to a halt immediately beside her, she continued serenely:
"I am sorry if you want me to come for a walk just now. I must finish clearing this piece of hedge. Will you go and get a hoe and lend me a helping hand?"
"I will in a moment," he replied, "but not just yet. I must speak to you, Fernande—just for a few minutes.... Will you turn to me and put down those tools a while? Upon my soul, it is passing serious ... Fernande!" he reiterated more earnestly, seeing that with strange obstinacy the young girl still kept her head resolutely bent to her work.
But at his insistence she threw down her tools and straightened her young figure. "What is it?" she queried as she faced him, with a mocking glance in her blue eyes.
He took her hand, which for just the space of a second she tried to free from his grasp.
"Fernande," he said in a tender tone of appeal, "you are not angry with me, are you?"
"Angry? You foolish Laurent!" she retorted gently. "Why should I be angry?"