"Là, là, là! Put it down, Fouchette! Put it down!"
A restless glance up and down the road and back towards the house seemed to relieve the young woman materially; she laughed now with delightful abandon.
"So Tartar and you are good friends in spite of the—the——"
"The fleas,—yes, ma'm'selle. He loves me and me alone. Nobody dares come near him when we sleep—or eat,—and I love him dearly. Did you ever love anybody, ma'm'selle?"
This artless question appeared to take the young woman by surprise; for she grew confused and quite red, and finally told little Fouchette to "run along, now, and don't be silly."
"Not with fleas,—oh, no; I didn't mean that!" cried the child, conscious of having made a faux pas, but not clear.
But the young woman was already flying through the flower-garden, and quickly disappeared around the corner of the house without once looking back.
Fouchette then let go of her breath and heaved a deep sigh as she turned away.
It was the only occasion within her childish recollection when one of her own sex had spoken to her in kindness. Now and then she had dreamed of such a thing as having occurred in the long ago,—in some other world, perhaps,—this was real, tangible, perceptible to the eye and ear.
"Sweet words
Are like the voices of returning birds,
Filling the soul with summer."