“But, Zitli!” Honor was shuddering even while she told the ancient tale that has existed in many forms, in many lands, for hundreds of years. “It is terrible! How can you laugh?”
“Saperli! I can laugh well. He was rightly served, that one. To burn up people like straw, did he deserve better? No, my faith! I am all for Brother Rats, mademoiselle. And in these ancient things,” added the boy with sudden gravity, “we see the finger of God, is it not so? If we would trust more in Him, it would be better for us, as my sister says. He for the great things, we for the little ones. As my grandfather in Botzen—Ste. Gêneviève have him in her holy keeping—inscribed over the door of his shop:
“‘I trust in God, and let Him reign;
I make new files, and mend the old again.’”
“Is Ste. Gêneviève your patron, Zitli?”
“Assuredly, mademoiselle! that holy saint was a shepherdess, you understand. It is true that we have chiefly cattle and goats, and only a few sheep, which besides are stupid creatures. A goat is at least amusing, if he has no conscience, as my brother says. But since there is no sainted goatherd in our knowledge, we commend ourselves to the protection of the holy Gêneviève.”
“I thought she became a nun before she was seven!” said Honor, thoughtfully. “Could she have been a shepherdess before that, do you think, Zitli?”
“With the blessed saints,” replied Zitli gravely, “many things are possible which would be difficult for ordinary persons. Is it not so, mademoiselle?”
Atli came home to dinner that day; they must make a festa, Gretli declared, for he seldom appeared at the noon meal. Accordingly, the table was brought out on the green; Zitli, who was extraordinarily active on his crutches, brought green boughs from somewhere to adorn the table; from her precious, carefully tended little flower bed, Gretli produced a bright blossom to lay by each plate.