“Yes, sir. Would you like a few?” replied Marguerite, her heart fluttering with hope.
“Well, now, I thought I had eaten almost everything that is eatable; but upon my word this does go a little beyond my experience,” said Abel Day, as he bent down to examine the delicate white frogs’ legs, which were ranged in rows, tastefully fringed with a border of parsley leaves. “But are you sure they are what you say they are? No toads among them?”
“We don’t eat toads in France, sir,” returned Marguerite, the blood mounting to her cheeks.
“In France! Why, are you from France?”
“I am. O la belle France! And father and mother used to keep a frog-stand in Rouen; and they had a fine mushroom garden there, too. But folks here don’t know what is good to eat. Oh! I wish my parents had never come to America; and so did they wish it before they died.”
“Well, what sort of a place is France?” inquired the other, who began to feel interested in the girl.
“I was very young, sir, when I left it; therefore I cannot describe it to you. But I know France is a beautiful country. It must be beautiful; no country in all the world can compare with it. Father and mother used to drink wine in France.”
“Well, people here drink wine, too, sometimes.”
“Do they? All those I know drink nasty water or else horrid whiskey,” said Marguerite, making a wry mouth.
“Humph! you are the first I ever met who didn’t like America,” pursued Abel Day. “However, I’ll not let this set me against you; so what is the price of your frogs?”