"But now, see, _mes enfants_! We must come back across the sea, for ze sun, he begin to go away down. So I tell zis, and Mère Jeanne she cry, she take us wiz her arms, she cannot let us go. But I take Madame on my arm, I go out in ze street, I begin to play wiz my hand. Then all come, all run, all cry, 'Marie! Marie is here wiz her _violon_!' And I play, play and sing, and the little children dance, dance, and _p'tit Jacques_ and Petie take them the hands and dance wiz--
"'Eh! gai, Coco, Eh! gai, Coco, Eh! venez voir la danse Du petit marmot! Eh! venez voir la danse Du petit marmot!'
"Adieu, adieu, Mère Jeanne! adieu, la France! but you, _mes enfants_; why do _you_ cry?"
[1] There were three sailor-lads of Groix, There were three sailor-lads of Groix, They sailèd in the Saint François, Tra la derira, etc.
[2] Little Marie, Mother Jeanne! Little Marie who loves you.
I WAS twelve years old when my mother died. She had no illness, or none that we had known of; the sweet soul of her slipped away in the night like a bird, and left the body smiling asleep. We never knew what ailed her; people did not torment themselves in those days with the "how" of a thing. There may have been talk behind the village doors, but my father never asked. She was gone, and his heart was gone with her, my poor father. She was all the joy of his life, and he never had any more; I never remember seeing him smile after that time. What gave him the best comfort was trying to keep things pretty and bright, as she liked to see them. He was neat as a woman, and he never allowed a speck of dust on the chairs, or a withered leaf on the geraniums. He never would let me touch her flowers, but I was set to polish the pewter and copper,--indeed, my mother had taught me that,--and he watched jealously lest any dimness come on them. I sometimes wondered at all this, as he had so lately counted these matters of adornment and prettiness and such as less than nothing, and vanity, as the preacher has it. But I think his great grief put a sacredness, as it were, over everything that had been hers, and all her ways seemed heavenly to him now, even though he had frowned at them (never at her, Melody, my dear! never at her!) when she was still with him.