for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the
idea. At last he declared:

"Well, I'll go!"

He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute's hesitation:

"As you haven't got anythin' to do you might shake down some apples to
bake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the funeral,
for one must have something to cheer them. You can light the fire with
the wood that's under the shed. It's dry."

He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took
out a six-pound loaf of bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gathered
the crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth, so as
not to lose anything. Then, with the end of his knife, he scraped out a
little salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on his
bread and began to eat slowly, as he did everything.

He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barking
again, went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared in
the direction of Tourville.

As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work. She uncovered the
meal-bin and made the dough for the dumplings. She kneaded it a long
time, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing it.
Finally she made a big, round, yellow-white ball, which she placed on
the corner of the table.

Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the tree
with a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruit
with care, only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.

A voice called from the road:

"Hey, Madame Chicot!"

She turned round. It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his
way to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feet
hanging over the side. She turned round and answered:

"What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?"

"And how is the father?"

She cried:

"He is as good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven, because
there's lots of work to be done."

The neighbor answered:

"So! Good luck to you! Take care of yourself."

To his kind remarks she answered:

"Thanks; the same to you."

And she continued picking apples.

When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father,
expecting to find him dead. But as soon as she reached the door she
heard his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time to
go over to him, she began to prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up the
fruit, one by one, in a thin layer of past