"I think Vevette is as bad as David," said Lucille, who had not before spoken. "She knew he was going, and she did not prevent him. If I had known, I should have told mother directly."
"Yes, thou art only too ready to tell," replied her mother. "Take care that no one has to tell of thee."
"And remember that spiritual pride is as great a sin as disobedience, and goes before a fall as often, my Loulou," added her father.
"I did not know what to do," said I. "Mother Jeanne does not like to have us tell tales;" which was true.
"Thine was an error in judgment, my little one. I am not angry with you, my children. Another time, you will both be wiser, and David also I trust. Nov run up to the top of the hill and see if you can see him."
We went out together, but not hand in hand as usual. A drizzling rain was falling, but we were too hardy to mind that. Our sabots or wooden shoes were impervious to wet, and our thick homespun frocks almost as much so. No sooner were we out of hearing of the elders, than Loulou overwhelmed me with a torrent of reproaches mingled with tears.
"It is you—you, Vevette, who have sent my brother away," she cried. "You knew he was going, and you did not try to stop him."
"That is not true," said I calmly. I was as angry as herself, but it was always a way of mine that the more excited I was, the quieter I grew. "I said everything I could."
"Yes, you said everything; why did not you do something. If he had told me—but no! Everything is for Vevette, forsooth, because she is a demoiselle. His poor sister is nothing and nobody. You try every way to separate him from me, and make him despise me. I wish—" but a burst of angry sobs choked her voice.
"Yes, I know what you wish, and you shall have your wish," said I, for I was now at a white heat.