“Oh, dear, no!” said the baroness hastily. “Your story is awfully interesting, but I could not bear to read the poor creature’s words.”
Well, the rest was obvious. Mrs. Bolland was childless after twenty years of married life. She begged for the bairn, and her husband allowed her to adopt it. They gave the boy their own name, but christened him after the scene of his mother’s death and his own miraculous escape. And there he was now, coming up the village street, leading Angèle confidently by the hand—a fine, intelligent lad, and wholly different from every other boy in the village.
Not even the squire’s sons equaled him in any respect, and the teacher of the village school gave him special lessons. Perhaps the lady had noticed the way he spoke. The teacher was proud of Martin’s abilities, and he tried to please her by not using the Yorkshire dialect.
“Ah, I see,” said the baroness quietly. “His history is quite romantic. But what will he become when he grows up—a farmer, like his adopted father?”
“John thinks te mak’ him a minister,” said Mrs. Bolland with genial pride.
“A minister! Do you mean a preacher, a Nonconformist person?”
“Why, yes, ma’am. John wouldn’t hear of his bein’ a parson.”
“Grand Dieu! Quelle bêtise! I beg your pardon. Of course, you will do what is best for him.... Well, ma belle, have you enjoyed your little walk?”
“Oh, so much, mamma. The miller has such lovely pigs, so fat, so tight that you can’t pinch them. And there’s a beautiful dog, with four puppy dogs. I’m so glad we came here. J’en suis bien aise.”
“She’s a queer little girl,” said Mrs. Bolland, as Martin and she watched the party walking back to The Elms. “I couldn’t tell half what she said.”