oaks.

As they approached the farm, a girl who was making hay in the meadow
dropped her fork and ran toward them. It was Sophie, who had
recognized the doctor and the young lady, as she called Clotilde. She
adored them, but she stood looking at them in confusion, unable to
express the glad greeting with which her heart overflowed. She
resembled her brother Valentin; she had his small stature, his
prominent cheek bones, his pale hair; but in the country, far from the
contagion of the paternal environment, she had, it seemed, gained
flesh; acquired with her robust limbs a firm step; her cheeks had
filled out, her hair had grown luxuriant. And she had fine eyes, which
shone with health and gratitude. Her Aunt Dieudonne, who was making
hay with her, had come toward them also, crying from afar jestingly,
with something of Provencal rudeness:

"Ah, M. Pascal, we have no need of you here! There is no one sick!"

The doctor, who had simply come in search of this fine spectacle of
health, answered in the same tone:

"I hope so, indeed. But that does not prevent this little girl here
from owing you and me a fine taper!"

"Well, that is the pure truth! And she knows it, M. Pascal. There is
not a day that she does not say that but for you she would be at this
time like her brother Valentin."

"Bah! We will save him, too. He is getting better, Valentin is. I have
just been to see him."