But Toinette could not
speak. She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung
herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.
"Ma cherie, what is it, whence hast thou come?" asked the good mother
alarmed. She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened
indoors. The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the
mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in
her lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had
been again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For a while
Toinette lay quiet, with her head on her mother's breast. Then she
wiped her wet eyes, put her arms around her mother's neck, and told her
all from the very beginning, keeping not a single thing back. The dame
listened with alarm.
"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling Toinette's hands and
head, "Thou hast a fever," she said. "I will make thee a tisane, my
darling, and thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly protested;
to bed she went and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink
threw her into a long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself
again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual
tasks.
Herself--but not quite the same Toinette that she had been before.
Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute.
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