ed by a crowd of
children, each in its finest clothes, and each bearing a small pot with
a flowering-plant in it.

"For thee! For thee! The good saints bless the day thou wert born!" they
all cried, pressing nearer, and lifting high their little pots. "See
my carnation!" shouted Pierre, struggling nearer to Hetty. "And
my jonquil!" "And my pansies!" "And this forget-me-not!" cried the
children, growing more and more excited each moment; while the chorus,
"For thee! For thee! The good saints bless the day thou wert born!" rose
on all sides.

Hetty was bewildered.

"What does all this mean?" she said helplessly.

Then, catching Pierre by the shoulder so suddenly that his red carnation
tottered and nearly fell, she exclaimed:

"You mischievous boy! Where is the child that was bitten? Have you told
me a lie?"

At this moment, Pierre's mother, pushing through the crowd, exclaimed:

"Ah! but thou must forgive him. It was I that sent him to lie to thee,
that thou shouldst not go home. We go with thee, to do our honor to the
day on which thou wert born!"

And so saying, Mere Michaud turned, and swinging high up in the air one
end of a long wreath of feathery ground-pine, led off the procession.
The rest followed in preconcerted order, till some forty men and women,
all linked together by the swinging loops of the pine wreath, were in
line. Then they suddenly wheeled and surrounded the bewildered Hetty,
and bore her with them. The children, carrying their little pots of
flowers, ran along shouting and screaming with laughter to see the good
"Tantibba" so amazed. Louder and louder rose the chorus:

"For thee! For thee! May the good saints bless the day thou wert born!"

Hetty was speechless: her cheeks flushed. She looked from one to the
other, and all she could do was to clasp her hands and smile. If she
had spoken, she would have cried. When they came to Father Antoine's
cottage, there he stood waiting at the gate, wearing his Sunday robes,
and behind him stood Marie, also in her best, and with her broad silver
necklace on, which the villagers had only two or three times seen her
wear. Marie had her hands behind her, and was trying to hold out her
narrow black petticoat on each side to hide something. Mysterious and
plaintive noises struggled through the woollen folds, and, at each
sound, Marie stamped her foot and exclaimed angrily:

"Bah! thou silly beast, be quiet! Wilt thou spoil all our sport?"

The processi