if she say me nay, what is it that I am to tell her, then?" urged
Pierrre.

"Art thou a fool, Pierre?" said his mother, sharply. "Thou'rt ready
enough with excuses, I'll warrant, for thy own purposes: invent one now.
It matters not, so that thou bring her here." And Pierre, reassured by
this maternal _carte blanche_ for the best lie he could think of, raced
away, first tucking securely into a niche of the stone basin the little
pot with a red carnation in it which he had brought for his contribution
to the birthday _fete_.

When Hetty saw Pierre waiting at the corner, she exclaimed:

"What, Pierre, loitering here! The sunset is no time to idle. Where are
your goats?"

"Milked an hour ago, Tantibba,[1] and in the shed," replied Pierre, with
a saucy air of having the best of the argument, "and my mother waits in
the Square to speak to thee as thou passest."

"I was not going that way, to-night," replied Hetty. "I am in haste.
What does she wish? Will it not do as well in the morning?"

Alarmed at this suggestion, young Pierre made a master-stroke of
invention, and replied on the instant:

"Nay, Bo Tantibba,[2] that it will not; for it is the little sister of
Jean Cochot which has been badly bitten by a fierce dog, and the mother
has her there in her arms waiting for thee to dress her wounds. Oh, but
the blood doth run! and the little one's cries would pierce thy heart!"
And the rascally Pierre pretended to sob.

[Footnote 1: "Tante Hibba."]

[Footnote 2: The French Canadians often contract "bonne" and "bon" in
this way. "Bo Tantibba" is contraction for "Bonne Tante Hibba."]

"Eh, eh, how happened that?" said Hetty, hurrying on so swiftly towards
the Square that even Pierre's brisk little legs could hardly keep up
with her. Pierre's inventive faculty came to a halt.

"Nay, that I do not know," he replied; "but the people are all gathered
around her, and they all cry out for thee by thy name. There is none
like thee, Tantibba, they say, if one has a wound."

Hetty quickened her pace to a run. As she entered the Square, she
saw such crowds around the basin that Pierre's tale seemed amply
corroborated. Pressing in at the outer edge of the circle, she
exclaimed, looking to right and left, "Where is the child? Where is Mere
Michaud?" Every one looked bewildered; no one answered. Pierre, with an
upward fling of his agile legs, disappeared to seek his carnation;
and Hetty found herself, in an instant more, surround