"Yes, yes, oh! yes, she told me so; she said, 'Try to get Father Jean-Claude to let you; I am satisfied.'"
"Well," said the sabot-maker, smiling sadly, "I can do little against two. You shall come! It is agreed."
The cottage echoed with her cry of joy, and with one sweep of her hand her tears were dried, and her face, like an April sky, beamed in smiles.
"You are a little gypsy still," cried Hullin, shaking his head. "Go trap a swallow."
"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."
"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."
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.
"There, Father Jean-Claude, eat your supper."
The fire leaped and crackled in the stove, throwing ruddy stains on the low rafters, the stairs half in shadow and the large bed in the alcove, and lighting up the poor dwelling so often made joyous by the merry humor of the sabot-maker and the songs of his daughter. And Louise would leave all this without regret to brave the wintry woods, the snow-covered paths, and the steep mountain-side, and all for love of him. Neither storm, nor biting wind, nor torrents staid her. She had but one thought, and that was to be near him.