"No, my child; see, they fly back again. I have even heard that it made them grow."
"Let us walk where there is no grass," said Narcisse, passionately, and, drawing her along with him, he went obliviously past the fruit and candy booths, and the spread tables, to a little knoll where sat three old men on rugs.
Vesper lay stretched on the grass before them, and, catching sight of Narcisse, who was approaching so boldly, and his mother, who was holding back so shyly, he craved permission from the old men to seat them on one of the rugs.
The permission was gladly given, and Rose shook hands with the three old men, whom she knew well. Two of them were brothers, from Meteghan, the other was a cousin, from up the Bay, whom they rarely saw. The brothers were slim, well-made, dapper old men; the cousin was a fat, jolly farmer, dressed in homespun.
"I can tell you one of olden times," said this latter, in a thick, syrupy voice, "better dan dat last."
"Suppose we have it then," said Vesper.
"Dere was Pierre Belliveau,—Pierre aged dwenty-one and a half at de drama of 1755. His fadder was made prisoner. Pierre, he run to de fores' wid four,—firs' Cyprian Gautreau and de tree brudders, Joseph dit Coudgeau, Charlitte dit Le Fort—"
"Is that where the husband of Madame de Forêt got his name?" interrupted Vesper, indicating his landlady by a gesture.