Germain's fatherly heart was as soft and weak as a woman's. His wife's
death, the care he had been compelled to bestow upon his little ones,
together with the thought that the poor motherless children needed to be
dearly loved, had combined to make it so, and such a hard struggle took
place within him, especially as he was ashamed of his weakness, and
tried to conceal his distress from little Marie, that the perspiration
stood out on his forehead and his eyes were bordered with red as if
they, too, were all ready to shed tears. Finally, he tried to be angry;
but as he turned to little Marie, as if to call her to witness his
firmness of will, he saw that the dear girl's face was bathed in tears,
and, all his courage deserting him, it was impossible for him to keep
back his own, although he continued to scold and threaten.

"Really, your heart is too hard," said little Marie at last, "and for my
part, I could never hold out like that against a child who is so
unhappy. Come, Germain, take him along. Your mare is used to carrying
two grown people and a child, for your brother-in-law and his wife, who
is much heavier than I am, go to market every Saturday, with their boy,
on the honest creature's back. You can put him up in front of you;
indeed, I'd rather go all alone on foot than make the little fellow
suffer so."

"Don't be disturbed about that," said Germain, who was dying with
anxiety to be persuaded. "Grise is strong, and would carry two more if
there was room on her backbone. But what shall we do with the child on
the way? he will be cold and hungry--and who will look after him
to-night and to-morrow, put him to bed, wash him and dress him? I don't
dare put that trouble on a woman whom I don't know, and who will think,
I have no doubt, that I stand very little on ceremony with her for a
beginning."