"Ma pauvre enfant!" she exclaimed, running to Marion as she entered and putting her arms about her.
"Josie," warned Perault gruffly, "shut up you. You go for mak fool of yousef."
But Josie paid no attention to her husband and continued petting the girl.
"Josie," cried Marion, fixing her eyes upon the Frenchwoman's kindly face, "tell me, is my father badly hurt? Perault would not tell me the truth."
"Non, ma petite, dat hur's not so ver' bad, but de cole water—das bad ting for fader, sure."
The cloud of gloom on the girl's face deepened. She turned away toward the door and saying, "I'll go and get some crocuses," she mounted her pony and rode off toward the Jumping Rock.
Within half an hour the girl came galloping back.
"Josie," she cried excitedly, springing off her pony, "they're coming. I saw them up the trail."
She tossed her flowers on the table and hurried to arrange them in basins, cups, old tin cans, and all available vessels, till the whole house seemed to be running over with those first and most exquisite prairie spring-flowers. And for many following days the spring-flowers filled the house with their own hope and cheer, when hope and cheer were both sorely, needed.