“Jean!”

Mother Barbette listened. It was the third time she had called within five minutes. First it had been “Petit Jean,” then “Jean,” and the third time there was a note in her voice which meant, “If you know what’s best for you, you’d better come at once. I know you’re hiding somewhere. The branches of the pear tree by the old well make good switches!”

She waited, listening. There was no answer except the sleepy twitter of meadow larks in the field beyond. Mother Barbette shaded her eyes from the hot noon sunshine and looked off across the deep green of grass and trees. The grass had been freshly cut and mounds of it lay about the cottage dooryard. Its sweet, warm scent was everywhere.

“You are somewhere about, of that I’m sure, and now I’m going to find out!” Mother Barbette’s black eyes twinkled mischievously as she spoke. “When I went up to the big house with the eggs I heard such a piece of news!” she called out.

A green mound moved suddenly in a jerking way, and the next second a dark head and two bright black eyes peered out. Then a brown hand appeared, closing quickly and just missing an elusive yellow butterfly. Then the whole of the boy came into view. He was covered with grass from head to foot. It stuck to his frayed, yellow trousers and had crept down the collar of his black blouse. It tickled his nose, and he blinked his eyes for it was even wound into his eyelashes. He had swallowed some of it, and when he saw his mother’s surprised face, he began to laugh, and then to choke, and she had to slap him on the shoulders before he could stop. As soon as he could speak, he said eagerly:

“Tell me at once, Petite MÈre, tell me what you heard.” He caught at her apron and pulled it. “Was there news of Paris, of the young ladies and Monsieur Lisle?”

“Maybe it was that!” Mother Barbette chuckled as she spoke.

“You are teasing me, Petite MÈre. Tell me, is the family coming?”

Jean tugged at the blue apron. He was small for his thirteen years, and had a quaint, babylike face.

“Some of them are coming!” His mother was teasing now.

Jean frowned but he smiled almost at the same time, so that a dimple showed in his thin cheek.

“You know it is of Mademoiselle Marie Josephine I would hear. Tell me, is she coming?” he asked breathlessly.

His mother nodded, and he began to jump up and down, up and down, until he could not jump any more. Then he threw himself down upon the mound of grass from which he had emerged and flung his broad, torn straw hat up in the air, shouting as loud as he could shout, which was very loud indeed. His mother put both her hands over her ears.

“Hush, you are like a wild animal to-day. Little Mademoiselle will not wish to speak with you if you are rough. Come, I’ve no time to stand idle here. There is so much to do, the apartments to make ready. It is different indeed from the old days, for only the governess and one maid, the little, fat ProtÉ, are to accompany the young ladies. None of the other servants of the Paris household are to come. There will only be the cook and scullery servants, an upstairs maid or two, and two men servants at Les Vignes—no state, no ceremony, no gaiety of any kind. The messenger who brought the news says that some of the Paris servants have left, and others are going. He says that they are storming the Tuileries palace—the people I mean, thousands of them. Madame la Comtesse became alarmed at the sound of battle and the cannonading, and late last night she sent a rider here. He arrived at mid-afternoon, and would only stay for a glass of wine and a bite of bread. He said he must make haste back again.” As Mother Barbette talked, she went inside her cottage door and Jean followed her, giving whoops of delight as he did so. His mother looked at him gravely.

“You need not make so much noise, my child. It is because of bad times that the young demoiselles are coming. We are so out of the way here in Pigeon Valley, without so much as an inn or a shop. Jacques, the rider, says we may be thankful that we are away from the towns. We are better off, he says, just to be here by ourselves in the valley, but we are bad enough off, some of us!” Mother Barbette sighed as she went over to her white wood table which, having been freshly scrubbed, shone in the late sunshine. “Jacques told many things and I know he spoke the truth, but it is hard to believe them.” She wrapped two loaves of bread, which stood on the table, in a clean towel which she took from a table drawer.

Jean was impressed by his mother’s tones, and followed her over to the table.

“What did he say, Petite MÈre?” he asked.

“Many things which you must not hear, or you will be having bad dreams as you did after eating so much of the cherry tart that the kind Nannette at the big house made for me on my birthday. Run now with this bread to your cousins.” Mother Barbette sighed as she handed the bundle to Jean, who put out his under lip sulkily.

“They had bread on Monday. Grigge is a horrid boy. I do not like any of them,” he objected. Nevertheless he took the bundle and started slowly toward the door. He knew that it would not do to trifle with his mother that day, but there was nothing he disliked more than a visit to his cousins, who lived in a straggling settlement of poor hovels near the entrance to Les Vignes.

“Do not grumble or complain or you will have a good taste of the pear-tree switch. Your cousins, have nothing, and never have had anything. You should not be selfish just because you have food every day, and goat’s milk too. It is only because of the kindness of the old Comte Saint FrÈre, who left in his will the word that you and I were to have our maintenance here in the cottage, that we are not begging for our food in the town squares. You know that well. It is not Madame la Comtesse who cares where we are or what we do. Run now, and take shame to yourself for your greediness!”

Mother Barbette was very uneasy and this made her tongue sharper than usual. She stood at the door watching Jean. He was all she had in the world, and when he looked at her with his merry, naughty, black eyes she seemed to see the young Jean Barbette who had wooed and married her, and who had died some few years back defending the old Comte Saint FrÈre from an attack by a stag when on a hunt. The fine old comte had never starved the peasants working for him, or laughed at their misery. The young Comte Lisle, too, had something gallant and lovable about him, in spite of the proud way he held his head. Mother Barbette sighed again, but soon she remembered that she had no time to stand and dream, and immediately began to busy herself about the cottage, humming the while. After giving a stir to the soup in the iron stock pot which hung over a low fire in her wide, stone fireplace, she went out, not even closing the cottage door after her. A loud caw greeted her as she stood for a moment drinking in the clear air. It was sunset time, and the sky showed salmon pink through the waving greenness of the trees. Mother Barbette turned and saw a black crow sitting on the stone window ledge.

“You need not caw to me, Pince Nez. You need not say you are sorry because you stole my thimble and tape last night and went off and hid them somewhere. Pince Nez! What a silly name even if Little Mademoiselle did give it to you!” Madame Barbette smiled as she hurried down the path and then, to her right, up the driveway to the great house, which loomed grimly against the sunset-tinted sky. The gamekeeper’s lodge was near the house, and so it was only a walk of a few minutes. There had not been another gamekeeper since her Jean had been killed, for the old comte had died and the young Comte Lisle was too young for hunting. Louise Barbette, with her boy, lived on at the lodge, making a scanty living for both of them by sewing when she could get any to do, and by weeding her tiny garden, which furnished all the food they had, except for the poor flour which made the thin, dark loaves of bread which she had sent by Jean to their poorer relatives.

Jean ran across the field and into the wood beyond. Every now and then he would give a clear, high call and then he would stop and listen. Once there was an answering call and then he laughed and his thin little face with its funny dimple wrinkled with delight.

“I’m happy and that’s why the lark answered. They never do if I’m cross,” he thought, and began to sing: “Tra la la, tra la la! They’ll be here the day after to-morrow. I shall hide behind the poplar trees by the gate and see them drive in!”

The way was long through the wood, which was part of the Saint FrÈre demesne, but it was beautiful and the air was cool and fragrant. After a while Jean began to run. It was fun to run in and out of the sweet greenness, always following the path which ended finally at a low stone paling. Jean could see, not far off, the towering arch of the great entrance way to the vast estate. He was never allowed to go in and out that way. He climbed the paling and ran across a field until he came to a dusty highway. He shuffled along the road, enjoying the thick clouds of dust that he raised about him. Little Mademoiselle would be coming in two days! He was on his way to his cousins—that was the only bit of blackness on his horizon. His cousins lived in one of a row of poor hovels situated some little way back from the roadside. Women sat in the rude doorways, glad of a breath of the fresh air. They were gaunt, sad-looking women, old long before their time because of years of heavy work in the fields, little food, and no rest at all. Children swarmed about the doorways and in the rough-looking stubble field beyond.

Jean stopped before the next to the last hut, where a lanky boy in ragged clothes stood slouching against the doorway. He had a long, ugly face and he was so thin that he seemed nothing but bones and eyes. He snatched one of the loaves of bread from under Jean’s arm and began eating it, tearing at the end of it with his teeth. The second loaf and the towel fell to the ground as Jean caught the other end of the loaf that Grigge was devouring and pulled at it with all his might.

“You shall not eat it all up. The others shall have their share,” he cried. But Grigge, who, in spite of his thinness, was stronger than Jean, being two years his senior and used to rough work, pulled himself away, bread and all, and went inside the hut. Jean turned around only to find his two younger cousins and the children next door fighting for the second loaf. He knew that there was nothing he could do to separate them or reason with them and so, having brought the bread, he could only leave them to fight it out. There were a dozen children now fighting for the loaf. Jean watched them for a moment and then turned back toward home. A voice called to him from the doorway in mocking tones. It was Grigge. He spoke between mouthfuls.

“You think you are very fine because you live with the gentry. You think you are a prince because you live within the gates!”

Jean turned and shook his fists at him and then ran on. He was in no mood for a fight with his cousin just then. Little rosy clouds floated in the sky, the air was full of the scent of the warm earth and cool wind. Jean began to run. He ran on faster and faster. He liked to think that he was flying. He was going home to a bowl of hot soup and the comfort of his mother’s presence.

As he ran through the wood, Jean began to feel very sorry indeed for his cousins. His mother was right. They had never had anything. He was sorry that he had not wanted to take them the bread. His mother’s cottage came into view as he reached the clearing in the wood. Mother Barbette was sitting on the doorstep knitting and the white deal table was drawn close to the door. When he came up to her he threw both arms around her and gave her a hug.

“I am a good boy. I know I am, Petite MÈre, because the lark answered when I called. It never does if I am naughty.”

“Your soup is keeping hot over the fire. Dish it out carefully into your own blue bowl. There is a piece of bread on the table. You may eat it with your soup here at the table by the door. The night is so fine that I could not stay inside.”

“I would rather sit on the doorstep beside you, Petite MÈre,” Jean answered, bringing his porringer of soup, and sitting down at his mother’s feet.

He did not talk at all until he had finished his soup and bread, for he was very hungry. When he was finished he went in and peered inside the stock pot, but there was no more soup.

“I am still hungry, Petite MÈre. I want more bread,” he complained, coming to the door.

“You cannot have any more bread to-day. You have had enough. Perhaps when the Little Mademoiselle comes she will give you a piece of white bread and fig jam,” returned his mother.

Jean’s face brightened and he leaned against his mother’s shoulder.

“You will make the jam for the big house again this year. Little Mademoiselle and I will watch and taste and then take some bread and jam to the woods for a picnic. We shall go to our favorite spot near the sundial. I love it best of all, Petite MÈre. It is all dark and woodsy and then there is suddenly the open clearing and the sundial!” Jean began to hop about the low-ceilinged room, from one end to the other. He would have liked to have jumped up on Mother Barbette’s treasure, her four-poster bed, but he did not dare to do so.

“You are so young, Jean. Will you ever grow up? Ah, I cannot credit what Jacques told us, but it must be true. Those brave fellows from Provence marched all the way to Paris! Jacques left while they were storming the king’s palace! What times! What days!” Mother Barbette shook her head over her knitting. Then she remarked to Jean, “Your cousins were thankful for the bread, I’ll wager!”

Jean nodded vigorously.

“They were as hungry as Wolf, the lodgekeeper’s dog, after he was lost for four days. They tore the bread to bits and all the other children came. They were fighting over one loaf when I came away.”

Mother Barbette dropped her knitting in her lap and bowed her head.

“Grigge was the worst of them all, Petite MÈre. He snatched a whole loaf for himself and he taunted me again. Grigge is not my friend.”

“He is always hungry, poor Grigge. He works all day at the olive mill for so little a pittance; it is no wonder that they starve.” Mother Barbette sighed as she spoke and Jean patted her cheek.

“You are not to do that again, Petite MÈre. You should smile because Little Mademoiselle is coming! I am going to find Dian and tell him the good news!” Jean made a dash at Pince Nez who had alighted on the back of Mother Barbette’s chair. Then he ran with a whoop down the little box-bordered path, through a hedgelike opening into the forest, on through piney sweetness, through deep, dark arches of mingling boughs, on and on, until he came to a great sweep of sloping meadows.

Jean saw the grey, moving mass of a flock of sheep in the distance, and he did not stop running until he had come up to them. Some one was walking beside them, a tall man in a grey smock, his long, red locks falling about his shoulders.

“Dian, Dian, they are coming to Les Vignes, the Little Mademoiselle and the other young ladies!” Jean cried.

The shepherd smiled a slow, quiet smile.

“Yes, I know that they are coming. I saw Jacques the runner. They are coming, but the young Comte Lisle remains in Paris with his mother,” he said.

Jean skipped along beside the shepherd. They were great friends and it was always easy for him to talk to Dian.

“I was very naughty to-day. I did not want to take the bread to Grigge and the others. I do not like Grigge. Why do you take your time to teach him to read and write, Dian? He is not at all a nice boy. He is like a wolf.”

The shepherd had reached the sheepfold door, and he stood with both hands against it, ready to push it open. He paused at Jean’s words, uttering no reproach, but looking off across the field to where a delicate mist mingled with the startling beauty of the sunset sky. Jean stood watching him digging his bare toes into the soft earth.

“Grigge will learn,” was Dian’s answer as he went inside the sheepfold.