“No, I shall sleep with the others. They thought I should be a nuisance, no use; you shall see. I shall put on my old clothes here, my dear, and then go and begin tidying the house. It needs it.”
It did. There was but a third of the roof left, and no windows and no doors, and in the garden weeds and rubbish competed with each other. Mère Vitry put on her old plum-coloured skirt, and black and white check blouse, borrowed a broom and an old spade, and marched off to battle like the true Frenchwoman that she was.
Monsieur Lefèbre, taking a parochial stroll, found Madame Vitry sweeping out the rubbish from the tiled floors of her kitchen and bedroom. He stood and watched her a moment, a most human smile on his generous face, and then that plump right hand of his made the sign of the cross.
“So you are busy already, madame?”
She leant on the broom-handle, thin hands clenched, black eyes bright with renewed youth.
“One cannot be idle, monsieur, when there is so much to be done.”
“You have walked from Ste. Claire?”
“I feel very well, monsieur, very well indeed. To-morrow I am going to work in my garden.”
“Splendid,” said the priest.
Her face lit up.