“Say ‘Honor,’” cried the girl. “We are friends, Zitli. Why should you call me Mademoiselle?”
Zitli shook his head decidedly. As to the why, he was not altogether clear. To begin with, that did not say itself in his tongue; not, at least, with any degree of comfort. And besides, the sisters and brother called her Mademoiselle, doubtless because it was fitting; he would prefer to do as they did, with Honor’s permission.
“And for the departure,—” the boy looked up, and his face was bright again,— “My brother and sister,” he announced, “have instructed me thus, Mademoiselle. That which we do ourselves, for that we may be glad or sorry, according as it is done well or ill. That which the good God sends, for that we are to be thankful, whatever it is, since He sends nothing without reason. It was thus my revered grandmother instructed them, and they me in turn. So, though—” he made a quaint grimace,—“though it is very grievous for me to have Mademoiselle go away, still I say to myself, ‘She goes to school,’ to learn wonderful things out of books. Ah! Mademoiselle, what happiness! hold! but when I am apprenticed to the maker of musical boxes, I, too, shall have some schooling, he has promised it. Not, of course, such as Mademoiselle has with the holy Ladies, but in some measure, yes! Books! ah, my faith! that is to dream of, hein?”
Honor looked at him, wondering. His face was like a lamp. Books? Of course, one always had books; some of them were good, but others were dull.
“But—but you have the mountains, Zitli,” she cried.
A perfect shower of nods responded. “Ah! yes! I return to the mountains, that understands itself. But with a little learning, too, all I can get, my faith! I shall love my mountains the better for it, and they also will understand. They are not ignorant fellows, those!”
He nodded toward the grave giants, who seemed to watch them kindly. “And—who knows, Mademoiselle? We may meet some day in Vevay. I might even sell Mademoiselle a cheese, if old Gruyère would permit it. My faith! if my sister Margoton waits too long, that one will dry up and blow away. Better might she marry a cockchafer, to my thinking. But he is a kind man, and a sober,” he added hastily. Honor knew he was thinking of Uncle Kissel.
Now Gretli was heard calling.
“I must go!” cried Honor. “We will surely meet in Vevay, Zitli. You will come to see me, won’t you? And you’ll tell me—”
Both were hobbling as fast as they could, for Gretli sounded imperative, though cheerful. Sure enough, when they reached the front of the châlet, there was Atli, smiling his broadest (which was very broad!) and holding in his hands a curious kind of chair; canvas seat, wooden arms, with an arrangement of straps and buckles fastened to the top. These straps, he explained, went round his neck and waist; one even encircled his head. As thus!