"Everything," said the sick woman.
"But you don't mind, do you, mother, dear?..."
"We have lived in this wagon for more than a year," said her mother; "your father died here, and although it's a poor thing, it makes me sad to part with it.... It is all that remains of him ... there is not one of these old things here that does not remind us of him...."
She stopped, gasping; the tears were rolling down her cheeks.
"Oh, forgive me, mother, for speaking about it," cried Perrine.
"My darling, you are right. You are only a child, but you have thought of the things that I should have. I shall not be better tomorrow nor the next day, and we must sell these things, and we must decide to sell...."
The mother hesitated. There was a painful silence.
"Palikare," said Perrine at last.
"You have thought that also?" asked the mother.
"Yes," said Perrine, "and I have been so unhappy about it, and sometimes I did not dare look at him for fear he would guess that we were going to part with him instead of taking him to Maraucourt with us. He would have been so happy there after such a long journey."