"Look you, Louise: it is now twelve years since I found you in the snow. You were blue with the cold, poor child; and when I brought you to the fire and warmed you, the first thing you did was to smile at me, and since that day your smile has ruled old Jean-Claude. But let us look at our bundles," said the good man with a sigh. "Are they well fastened?"
He approached the bed, and saw in wonder his warmest coats, his flannel jackets, all well brushed, well folded, and well packed. Then in Louise's bundle were her best dresses and her thick shoes. He could not restrain a laugh, as he cried:
"O gypsy, gypsy! It takes you to pack up."
Louise smiled.
"Then you are satisfied with them?" she asked.
"I must be; but in the midst of all this fine work, you did not think, I'll wager, of getting ready my supper."
"That is soon done," said she, "although I did not know you would return to-night, Papa Jean-Claude."
"That is true; but get something ready quickly; no matter what, for my appetite is sharp. In the meantime I will smoke a pipe."
"Yes, smoke a pipe."
He sat at the corner of his work-bench and drummed dreamily upon it. Louise flew to right and left like a veritable fairy, kindling up the fire, breaking eggs, and in the twinkle of an eye she had an omelette ready. Never had she looked so graceful, so joyous, so pretty. Hullin leaned his cheek upon his hand and gazed at her gravely, thinking how much firmness, will, resolution, there was in that little form, light as an antelope, but decided as a cuirassier. In a moment she had laid the omelette before him on a large plate, ornamented with blue flowers, a loaf of bread, his glass, and his bottle of wine.