ing the
long, cold evenings, and often through entire days, when five minutes in
the open air would have frozen any exposed parts of their bodies.

But the dull monotony of this ice, and snow, and frost could not last
for ever. In early March a faint feeling of spring was perceptible in
the air; the sea sounded less dread; the birds' cries lost some of their
harshness; and before the end of the month they were aroused by a cheery
"Pip, pip, pop!" oft and vigorously repeated from the top of their hut.
They knew the cry. It was the first robin. Spring was come at last. They
went to the door, almost expecting to see the bare ground, and to hear
the rustling leaves. But a full foot of snow buried the whole island
beneath it; and a winter chill was still in the air, despite the robin's
whistle and the warm sun.

The robin was an old friend. He had been the last bird to leave in the
autumn, and, when he saw them, he saucily flew to his accustomed
feeding-place, expecting his morning meal. Nor was he disappointed. Day
by day they delighted his heart with finely-crushed crumbs of the hard
biscuit De Roberval had put on shore with them. Though he came early,
spring seemed still far away. No other birds returned for several weeks,
not even the mate of this red-breasted fore-runner of summer. Possibly
she had been lost on the stormy trip from the mainland; or possibly he
had merely been sent ahead as a sentinel to spy out the land, and see if
it were fit for its summer residents.

April crept slowly by, and towards the end a few plaintive-voiced
sparrows added their songs to the vigorous, self-confident notes of the
robin. Soon the whole island one morning burst into song, and spring was
indeed with them. The snow had vanished, save in the hollows and in the
shaded spots, and the grass here and there began to take on the fresh,
living green which rejoiced their hearts.

But spring was to bring small joy to them. Faithful old Bastienne grew
weaker day by day. Claude and Marguerite were filled with pity as they
saw her sitting, helpless and dejected, on the rude seat near the
outdoor fireplace. She could scarcely walk, and the hollow, choking
cough, which sounded like a death-knell in their ears, told them she had
not long to live. They dreaded seeing her pine and die before their
eyes, while they were powerless to help her.

But the gods were kinder to them all than they had anticipated. Coming
back one day early in May from a