At last she could keep it to herself no longer. She must share her misery. But there was only one person in the world who could understand. She declared to herself that nothing would induce her to go to l'Étang; and yet, as if under a spell, she made ready for the journey.
"Where are you going, my Zabette?" asked her old mother.
"To l'Étang," she answered. "I hear there is a girl there who makes a special brown dye for wool."
"Well, the walk will do you good, ma fille. You have been indoors too much lately. You are growing right pale and ill-looking."
"Oh, it is nothing, maman. I never feel very brisk, you know, in November. 'Tis such a dreary month."
She took a back road across the barrens to l'Étang. Scarcely any one traveled it except in winter to fetch kindling wood from the scrub fir that grew there. Consequently Zabette was much surprised, after walking about a mile and a half, to discover that some one was approaching from the opposite direction—a woman, with a red shawl across her shoulders. Gradually the distance between them lessened; and then she saw, with a start, that it was Suzanne Benoît. Her knees began to tremble under her. When they met, at last, no words would come to her lips: they only looked at each other with questioning, hunted eyes, then embraced, weeping, and sat down silently on a moss-hummock beside the road. Zabette had not felt so comforted since the disaster of October. For the first time she could let the tears flow without any fear of detection. At last she said, very calmly:
"I have brought the picture."
She drew it out from under her coat, and held it on her knees, where Suzanne could see it.
"And here is the shell box," rejoined her companion. "I do not know how to read, me; but there are the words—À ma chérie. It's pretty—hein?"
Each gazed at the other's treasure.