"How will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the time."
"Oh yes, I can," said Nettie, cheerfully. "I can manage. They are not heavy."
"No, I hope not," said the Frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but two loaves are not one, no more. Is your mother well?"
She then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out the milk. Nettie answered, her mother was well.
"And you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "Somebody is tired this evening."
"Yes," said Nettie, brightly; "but I don't mind. One must be tired sometimes. Thank you, ma'am."
The woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in her hands, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she went up the street.
"One must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her capable little head. "I should like to hear her say 'One must be rested sometimes;' but I do not hear that."
So perhaps Nettie thought, as she went homeward. It would have been very natural. Now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the soft shades of evening were gathering, and lights twinkled in windows. Nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. Perhaps she wished her Saturday's work was all done, like other people's. All I can tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street, all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words,—
| "No need of the sun in that day |
| Which never is followed by night;" |