was shy, and she did not feel that she had anything worth saying to the
little ones, who looked at her with half-frightened, half-inviting eyes
when they passed her door. By-and-by, however, she mustered up
courage, and called one or two of them to her, and gave them flowers
from her little garden. Also a pot of jam with a spoon in it proved an
eloquent argument in favour of friendship; and after a while the
children fell into a way of sauntering past with backward glances, and
were always glad to come in when Marie knocked on the window, or came
smiling to the door, with her handkerchief tied under her chin and her
knitting in her hand. It was only when her husband was away that this
happened; Marie would not for worlds have called a child to meet her
husband's eyes, those blue eyes of which, she stood in such terror,
even when she grew to love them.

One little boy in particular came often, when the first shyness had
worn away. He was an orphan, like Marie herself: a pretty, dark-eyed
little fellow, who looked, she fancied, like the children at home in
France. He did not expect her to talk and answer questions, but was
content to sit, as she loved to do, gazing at the trees or the clouds
that went sailing by, only now and then uttering a few quiet words that
seemed in harmony with the stillness all around. I have said that
Jacques De Arthenay's house lay somewhat apart from the village street.
It was a pleasant house, long and low, painted white, with vines
trained over the lower part. Directly opposite was a pine grove, and
here Marie and her little friend loved to sit, listening to the murmur
of the wind in the dark feathery branches. It was the sound of the
sea, Marie told little Petie. As to how it got there, that was another
matter; but it was undoubtedly the sound of the sea, for she had been
at sea, and recognised it at once.