"It is—wait a minute—it is nearly six years, for my Jeannie was fourteen months old."
"So I was not so old then as he is now? When he has made his first communion, do you think he will remember all that is happening to him now?"
"Oh! yes, I shall be sure to remember," cried Jeannie.
"That may be so or not," said François. "What were you doing yesterday at this hour?"
Jeannie was startled, and opened his mouth to answer; then he stopped short, much abashed.
"Well! I wager that you cannot give a better account of yourself, either," said the miller's wife to François. She always took pleasure in listening to the prattle of the two children.
"I?" said the waif, embarrassed, "wait a moment—I was going to the fields, and passed by this very place—I was thinking of you. Indeed, it was yesterday that the day when you wrapped me up in your shawl came into my mind."
"You have a good memory, and it is surprising that you can remember so far back. Can you remember that you were ill with fever?"
"No, indeed!"
"And that you carried home my linen without my asking you?"