"No, no! I will go with you; I care not for cold. And I have been shut up here too long; I want the fresh air. The birds are out; the redbreasts are out all winter; and did I not know what hunger was when a child? Mother Lefevre says I may go; and will you whom I love so much be more cruel than she?"
Brave Jean-Claude sat down, his heart full of bitter sorrow. He turned away his head that she might not see the struggle going on within, while Louise eagerly continued:
"I will be safe; I will follow you. The cold! What is the cold to me? And if you should be wounded—if you should wish to see your little Louise for the last time, and she not be near to take care of you—to love you to the last! Oh! you must think me hard-hearted!"
She sobbed; Hullin could hold out no longer.
"Is it indeed true that Mother Lefevre consents?" he asked.
"Yes, yes, oh! yes, she told me so; she said, 'Try to get Father Jean-Claude to let you; I am satisfied.'"
"Well," said the sabot-maker, smiling sadly, "I can do little against two. You shall come! It is agreed."
The cottage echoed with her cry of joy, and with one sweep of her hand her tears were dried, and her face, like an April sky, beamed in smiles.
"You are a little gypsy still," cried Hullin, shaking his head. "Go trap a swallow."
Then, drawing her to him, he continued: