"No, no! it's not that," she declared at length. "Only there's Buteau."
"But since he refuses?"
"That's certain. And now there's no sentiment in the matter, for he's behaved too badly. But, all the same, Buteau must be consulted."
Jean reflected for a good minute. Then, very sensibly, he replied:
"As you please. It's due to the child."
La Frimat, who was gravely emptying the pail of drainings into the cauldron, thought herself called upon to approve the step—albeit favourable to Jean, the honest fellow; he surely was neither pig-headed nor brutal—and she was delivering herself to this effect, when Françoise was heard outside, returning with the two cows.
"I say, Lise," she cried, "come and look. La Coliche has hurt her foot."
They all went out, and Lise, at the sight of the limping animal, with her left fore-foot bruised and bleeding, flew into a sharp passion—one of those surly bursts with which she used to sweep down upon her sister when the latter was little, and happened to be in fault.
"Another of your pieces of neglect, eh? You, no doubt, dropped off to sleep on the grass, the same as you did the other day?"
"I assure you I didn't. I don't know what she can have done. I tied her to the stake, and she must have caught her foot in the cord."