Spring had come early in Paris. It was a fortnight since Dian had gone to the alley and found Rosanne, since the wonderful evening when they had sat by the poor little fire of broken boxes and talked and talked. There they were in the heart of a city that had gone mad, one of them in hiding to save her life, all of them in gravest danger if once their real purpose were known, but all of them so happy.

When it was time for the two girls to go to sleep on their cot, Humphrey and Dian went up to the room above and sat, one on each side of the table, pondering what it was best to do.

“Th’ lad is there in the bakery shop. Tha found his poor note in th’ cake. The Lord is good. What a way! Odds me, what a way!” Humphrey muttered to himself. His heart was full, but some of his burden had rolled away. This quiet shepherd of the valley was at hand to help. He knew where Lisle was imprisoned and they could take counsel together.

Dian knew no English, and Humphrey’s French, as we know, was limited; but they managed to converse, and from the first they understood each other.

“I have a friend of many a year who would be fair willin’ to help us with a boat. He’s a skipper of his own vessel, the Sandlass. They’ve made young master Lisle’s mother prisoner in her aunt’s house. It is not safe for any of the family to be in Paris,” said Humphrey.

“It is not safe for any of the family to be in France, not for any of them.” Dian repeated the last words slowly, adding, “It soon may be unsafe in Pigeon Valley!” He was silent for a few minutes, and a deep gravity touched his face, an earnestness that was like a prayer. Then, as he looked across at Humphrey and saw the misery on his round face, he smiled his slow smile.

“You have done well and you speak words of comfort. Tell me the name of your friend who owns the boat and write him a letter,” he said.

Humphrey Trail looked at Dian in amazement.

“His name is Anastasius Grubb. But what good will that do? Tha knows well there is no way to send a letter through the gates, or to be sure it will reach my friend!” he exclaimed.

“I’ll see that the letter goes through the gates safely, and that it is given to the driver of the coach which goes nearest to the valley. I can trust him to give it into the hands of some one who will put it in the hands of your friend the skipper!”

“Tha can do this? Tha can trust the letter to go through?”

“Yes, trust,” Dian nodded as he spoke.

That was the conversation that Humphrey Trail and Dian held in the rat-haunted room in the alley.

A fortnight later the first breath of spring that they had felt there in the sunshine by the West Barricade had deepened into joyousness in Pigeon Valley. A faint flare of green touched the tops of trees in the forest, and a gleam of mauve and gold showed the early budding of violets and crocuses. There was a happy carnival of song birds early every morning. The sun was warm at noontime, and the nights were softly luminous.

There was spring everywhere, except in the hearts of the family at Les Vignes. There had been no arrival of the messenger for whom they had waited throughout the long winter. The comtesse had sent them no word, and that meant that she had not been able to do so. There had been rumors now and then, even direct news, of the horrors of Paris, brought by traveling peddlers, but there had been no news from Dian at all.

It was of this that Marie Josephine was thinking as she put Great-aunt Hortense’s shawl around her, and walked down the staircase at Les Vignes. It had been the hardest thing to bear, not hearing from Dian. She had felt so sure that he would find a way to help.

There was a look on Marie Josephine’s face which had never been there before, a seriousness in her eyes and about her mouth, a look of high purpose and of dignity. Madame le Pont noticed it as she came into the salon. They were all sitting about a fire of crisply burning logs, for the spring nights were cold.

“What is it, Marie Josephine?” she asked, and as she spoke the governess rose from her chair and came up to her.

“What do you mean, Le Pont dear? What is what?” Marie Josephine said gently, and she put her arm around Madame Le Pont’s waist and placed her cheek close to hers for a moment. There was something so wistful in the action that the governess felt sudden tears springing to her eyes.

“You are different in some way, chÉrie. You seem so—what shall I say—so very much a woman to-night.” Madame le Pont smiled as she spoke, for she knew that her remark would please her pupil greatly. She was surprised at Marie Josephine’s reply.

“I was just thinking about that to-night—being a woman, I mean. I was wondering how it might have been”—her voice trembled a little as she spoke—“if we’d just gone on as we were, here and in Paris; if there hadn’t been a revolution, and just the same everyday things had continued to happen. I was wondering what kind of a ball I should have attended for my first one, and if I should have been a belle!”

“You would have been as lovely as your Great-aunt Hortense when she was belle of Versailles,” put in CÉcile from her seat by the fire.

“You mean she will be. You speak as though all this were going on forever, CÉcile,” said Hortense, fastening back a long curl with her tortoise-shell comb.

“Let’s dance, Spitfire,” suggested Bertran, sliding across the room to her.

Marie Josephine nodded. “Yes, I would like to dance. Will you play for us, CÉcile?”

CÉcile stood up and went over to the spinnet.

“I’d love to play. See if you can do a gavotte to the shepherd song I was trying yesterday. Do open the jalousie, Bertran, the moon is trying to shine in,” she said, seating herself at the old spinnet which had helped them all to while away the long evenings during the winter. CÉcile needed all her courage these days, for the governess talked more freely to her than to the others, and she knew that things were coming to a serious pass at Les Vignes. The men on the place were leaving for the army. Most of them had already gone. There would be no one to till the ground. There was no one on whom they could rely, now that Dian had gone, except Neville, and his only idea of helping was to go again to Paris. Dian had gone and they had had no word. Neville must not leave them.

Marie Josephine enjoyed her dance with Bertran. She wore the soft white silk brocade gown that had been made for her thirteenth birthday, and, like Hortense, she had fastened her curls with a comb, a large gilt one of her mother’s which she had borrowed. When they finished, Marie Josephine made Bertran a deep curtsy. She waited until the others were talking and then slipped out of the room. She drew the thick red silk shawl closely about her as she stepped out on to the terrace.

The moon was almost full, and its light seemed to bring out each leaf and twig of the great oak at the foot of the terrace steps with startling distinctness. As she stood there in the radiance of the moon, she thought she saw something move under the tree. Some one shrank back into the shadow and moved quickly into the deep underbrush. Marie Josephine waited. She knew that, if it really were any one, after he had gone through the shrubbery, she would see him cross the clearing that led to the forest. In a few moments she saw a woman pass rapidly through the clearing, making for the wood and going in the direction of the gates. The moonlight had fallen full upon her and there was something vaguely familiar about her figure. Marie Josephine stood looking after her. Why was that figure so familiar? Who could it be? Why had she been hiding there in the shadow as though she were spying?

Marie Josephine’s mind was so full of another thought that she did not dwell long on the apparition of the woman, whoever she might be, for more than a minute. Then she ran down the terrace steps and disappeared in the direction of Mother Barbette’s cottage. As she had guessed, Mother Barbette herself was not in the cottage. She had gone to one of the hovels to nurse a boy who had hurt his leg. Marie Josephine called softly:

“Jean!”

Jean was sitting on the stone doorstep, but she had not seen him in the shadow of the moon and tree branches. He jumped up and came running to her.

“I’ve only come for a minute, Jean. Let’s sit on the doorstep. Isn’t the moonlight wonderful? We’ve had so much fun in the moonlight every summer, haven’t we? We’ve been comrades, Jean, great friends!” Marie Josephine put out the back of her hand as she spoke, and Pince Nez, the crow, lighted on it with a croak.

“Pince Nez will be two years old in June. Do you remember when Dian rescued him and brought him to the sheepfold? I can just see him now, lying on the shelf with his funny beak open.” Marie Josephine stroked the crow gently, and Pince Nez winked impudently.

Jean was sitting in the shadow, and as Marie Josephine went on speaking, his eyes grew rounder and rounder!

“We must always remember what friends we have been and be happy about it. You will grow to be a fine man, Jean. I am sure of that. You must always help Grigge. Dian would wish you to.” Marie Josephine paused and sat silently looking off at the black outline of the wood.

Suddenly Jean jumped up and stood in front of her.

“Tell me, Little Mademoiselle, tell me what you are thinking about.”

“I am thinking how I love Pigeon Valley, Jean.” She jumped up also and put her hand on his arm. “I—oh, that’s all!”

Jean spoke again, softly and quickly.

“You are thinking of the plan, I know you are. You are going to do that—no, I won’t say it, but no one can hear us.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You are going to run away to Paris. I know you are!”

They walked on through the wood path, and when they came to the sundial, she turned and faced him.

“You are always making up mysteries, you funny boy,” she said. “I must run, for it’s past my bedtime. Good night, Jean!” she cried over her shoulder. As she ran toward the house the hot tears chased down her cheeks. It was the hardest thing she had ever experienced, not telling Jean what she was going to do that very night!

CÉcile and Denise were sitting in front of a log fire in CÉcile’s bedroom when Marie Josephine came in to say good night. CÉcile was talking in her gentle way and she looked up smilingly when Marie Josephine came in.

“I was telling Denise that we must make the best of this wonderful spring weather, and we’ve been planning a picnic. What do you say to a lunch out of doors in the birch woods soon, and a violet picking expedition afterward?”

Marie Josephine nodded. Her tongue was dry, and for the moment she found it easier to nod than to speak. She had wiped away her tears from her face, but she felt them in her heart.

Denise yawned and stood up.

“I for one am sleepy. Bertran and I had a splendid ride. It is stupid of Le Pont, though, not to let us go out of the demesne just because that bailiff person said it was not safe. Why, our roads about Les Vignes are the safest in the whole world! Good night; and let us each one dream of the true loves we are going to have!” Denise laughed gaily and twirled around on her blue satin bedroom slippers, their crystal buckles sparkling in the firelight.

When she had gone, Marie Josephine sat down on the floor in front of the fire.

“You look so perfectly dear to-night with your hair caught up that way, Marie Josephine. I can shut my eyes and see you as you’ll be four years from now. The red shawl becomes you, too. Just wait, you’ll have your true loves, I’m sure of that!” CÉcile said, leaning back against the dark brocaded velvet chair.

Marie Josephine turned toward her eagerly. “Do you really think so, CÉcile? Ah, tell me,” as she went on speaking she came close up to CÉcile’s chair, kneeling with both hands on the arm of it, “CÉcile, you will always love me. You’ll always trust me, won’t you?” There was something so intense in the look she gave her friend that CÉcile leaned forward and gazed at her.

“Why yes, yes, of course. What is it, Marie Josephine!” she exclaimed.

“I—oh, nothing—that is, let me just give you a big hug.” Marie Josephine put both arms about her friend and hugged her. Then she jumped up quickly.

“ProtÉ will be tired waiting up for me. Good night, CÉcile!” She ran over to the door, then turned and waved her hand toward CÉcile, who waved back. Then she went to her own room.

ProtÉ tucked the bedclothes neatly about her when she said good night. She was one of those who could not think of Marie Josephine’s ever growing up, and she spoke authoritatively as she blew out the candle.

“You must be careful about the chill night air, Little Mademoiselle. It is not good, you know. Keep well covered, and do not, I beg of you, go over to the window to see the moon!” ProtÉ’s round face was serious. She felt a great responsibility toward all the children, especially the youngest one, the Little Mademoiselle.

“Come here a minute, you funny ProtÉ. Now bend over and I’ll squeeze you tight. ProtÉ, look at Trudle. Hasn’t she a smug face? Never let them know that she sleeps with me. Can’t you fairly see their horror! 'She is nearly fourteen and she sleeps with her doll!’ ProtÉ chÉrie, you are a dear and I love you. Here’s one more squeeze! Good night.”

ProtÉ returned her charge’s embrace fervently, and then went over to the doorway. As she went out she looked back at the little figure in the great bed.

“Good night, Little Mademoiselle. God guard you!” she said.

Marie Josephine lay very still, the wooden-faced doll beside her. She heard a clock strike ten and then eleven, and after waiting a few moments, jumped lightly out of bed, and going over to the door, bolted it. Then, aided only by the moonlight streaming in through the wide casement near her bed, she went over to a cupboard and, standing on a chair, reached back as far as she could and lifted out a box. She jumped down and went over to the bed with the box and opened it. She drew out a shabby, rather soiled, black calico apron. She began to dress herself rapidly, discarding her lace-trimmed petticoat and putting on plain garments such as a peasant child would wear. Over them she put the black, smocklike apron. She went over to the dressing table, and opening a drawer, fished about until she found a pair of scissors. Then she began to clip her hair. It fell in soft, warm waves on to her shoulders and thence to the floor. When she had finished, she looked into the glass and by the light of the moon was able to see herself plainly.

She saw a pale little girl with big, black eyes, whose ragged, unkempt-looking black locks flapped about her face! She smiled into the glass and the forlorn, black-clad figure smiled back at her. Then she put on a warm, worn jacket with a torn sleeve, tucked a black handkerchief about her neck and tossed back her uneven wisps of black hair. She took a bundle from the box on the bed and, after one glance about the room, unbolted the door and went out, closing it softly behind her.

She crept along the hall until she came to Madame Le Pont’s room. She stopped by the closed door and wrapped a note about the knob. After waiting a moment and listening, she went back to her own door. There was a whine and a scratch on the other side. It was Flambeau, who had slept soundly while she was dressing, but who had awakened and missed her.

“Listen, Flambeau,” she breathed through the keyhole. “I’d love to take you with me, doggie, but I’m going where you couldn’t go. I want you and Jean to go along more than, more than——” Her voice trailed into a soft sob. This would never do. She turned away and ran silently and swiftly through the great house, unlocked a small door leading on to a little balcony over the rose garden, and jumped lightly down a distance of a few feet on to the soft new grass of the east terrace.

Then she was off like the wind, her bundle under her arm. She looked back once at the great house, so silver white under the moon. She entered the wood, so fresh and wild and sweet, on this early spring night. Startled wild things in the bushes stirred and scampered at her approach. She must do one thing—she must have one last look at Mother Barbette’s cottage. She stopped running as she caught sight of it through the budding trees. There it was, so warm and snug and red with its straight, quaint stone chimney, its neat stone doorstep. Marie Josephine looked and looked at it as though she could never look long enough or hard enough. Then she turned and walked slowly away. As she entered the wood path again, she thought she saw something moving in the shadow. She had thought the same thing on her way to the cottage. She could not be frightened in her own woods of Les Vignes, but she started to run, and ran on and on, taking the cut through the hedge near the gates as Dian had done, and, like him, going to the huts. She did not knock as he had done, but put her mouth close to the keyhole.

“Grigge!” she called, very softly. Almost before she knew it the door opened and Grigge’s gaunt, long face peered through the opening. When he saw Marie Josephine he came out and closed the door. He did not recognize her at first, and when she spoke his astonishment was so great that he rubbed his eyes with his jacket sleeve and stared at her open-mouthed.

“Listen, Grigge, I have only time to speak a word with you. I am going to find Dian, and to help him and the others, if I can. I want you to know. And, Grigge,” she came a step closer and looked up at him earnestly, “I feel that you can do so much here among the people. For Dian’s sake, help us now. I know that everyone is leaving us, and that there is wild talking in the barns and through the fields. Grigge, I know that you have nothing to be grateful for to us, but will you not help us now? Stay and care for Dian’s sheep. Do not join the wild crowds in the townships.” She touched his arm in farewell and was off, flying down the road as though her feet had wings.

Grigge stood looking after her, so dazed that he could not credit his senses. He had come out half asleep and found a shock-haired peasant girl at his door who had spoken to him with the voice of the Little Mademoiselle! What was it she had said? Do not join the wild crowds in the townships! Little she knew of those crowds, or of anything but ease and luxury. She was right, he had nothing to be grateful for to a Saint FrÈre. He hated them root and branch. He stood looking after Marie Josephine as she sped away along the moonlit road, as though he could not believe his eyes. Where was she going, and what did it mean? Then some of her words came back to him: “Stay and care for Dian’s sheep!” He went into the close hovel and threw himself down on his oat-straw shakedown.

Marie Josephine ran and ran until she could run no more. At last she sank down in the shadow of a newly-budded oak, breathing hard, her bundle at her side. As she sat there she heard a sound which surprised her, a sound of swiftly running steps which might almost have been an echo of her own! She shrank back farther in the shadow. Some one was running toward her through a dark side path of a meadow close to the road. She stood up, took a step forward, and cried, “Jean!”

He sank down under the tree and for several seconds could do nothing but pant painfully. At last he took one deep, long breath and spoke.

“I almost lost you. You led me such a dance! You ran as though you had lightning in your shoes. I even called to you and begged you to wait, but you did not hear!”

Marie Josephine was so glad to see him that she could not speak. Finally she said:

“You came; but how did you know?”

“I just thought it was to-night from the way you spoke when we sat there on the doorstep. I knew that, because of Petite MÈre, you would never let me come with you, but I’ve come, I’ve come. I’ve never been anywhere at all, and now I’m going with you. I’m going to take care of you! We’ve come a long way and we can’t go back! I watched for you by the terrace. I crept out when I heard Petite MÈre snoring. Then when I saw you, I followed you. I hid behind the hedge while you talked with Grigge. Name of a name, but he was dumb with surprise. I ran near you along the meadow, but you went so fast and I stumbled twice and fell. I’m going with you. You can’t stop me. I’m going all the way!”

Marie Josephine jumped up and took his hand. She was so glad that he had come that the tears brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks.

“It’s naughty, it’s awful—it’s wonderful! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come. We must not waste another second here. We must not rest at all until daylight.”

They started to walk at a swift pace, holding hands, the bundle flopping over Jean’s shoulder. All about them was the sweetness and mystery of the night, and before them, the lure of adventure!