“Tell me, Little Mademoiselle, tell me what you are thinking about.”
“I am thinking how I love Pigeon Valley, Jean.” She jumped up also and put her hand on his arm. “I—oh, that’s all!”
Jean spoke again, softly and quickly.
“You are thinking of the plan, I know you are. You are going to do that—no, I won’t say it, but no one can hear us.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You are going to run away to Paris. I know you are!”
They walked on through the wood path, and when they came to the sundial, she turned and faced him.
“You are always making up mysteries, you funny boy,” she said. “I must run, for it’s past my bedtime. Good night, Jean!” she cried over her shoulder. As she ran toward the house the hot tears chased down her cheeks. It was the hardest thing she had ever experienced, not telling Jean what she was going to do that very night!
Cécile and Denise were sitting in front of a log fire in Cécile’s bedroom when Marie Josephine came in to say good night. Cécile was talking in her gentle way and she looked up smilingly when Marie Josephine came in.
“I was telling Denise that we must make the best of this wonderful spring weather, and we’ve been planning a picnic. What do you say to a lunch out of doors in the birch woods soon, and a violet picking expedition afterward?”
Marie Josephine nodded. Her tongue was dry, and for the moment she found it easier to nod than to speak. She had wiped away her tears from her face, but she felt them in her heart.
Denise yawned and stood up.