“Nothing, aunt—that is to say, we are to do what we please with it.”
“Then we must have the house rebuilt and the garden sowed; that will be Coco’s own property.”
Denise allowed her aunt to have her way; she no longer had any heart for anything, her melancholy seemed to increase every day, and the child’s endearments were powerless to divert her. She sought relief from her sorrows in toil; but in the midst of her rustic duties, which were formerly her delight, Denise would pause, heave a sigh, and stand sometimes for many minutes, lost in thought.
When Mère Fourcy surprised her in one of these fits of melancholy, she would run to her and ask:
“What on earth is the matter with you, girl?”
“Nothing, aunt,” Denise would reply, trying hard to smile.
“But you was standing there without moving, and you didn’t say a word.”
“Because I was thinking, aunt.”
“What about, my child?”