and began to make itself
audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience.

"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away
only last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was
having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last
Friday. And I wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I
was angry with him. How unkind he was to say that--but I wasn't always
kind to him. And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up.
That was because he broke my cup. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl
I've been to them all."

"But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn't you?" said
the inward voice. "I think you could."

And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud: "I could.
Yes--and I will."

The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she now
regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out in
the grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it instantly
vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a beetle-green
coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But Toinette had
had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the road toward
home, running with all her might.

"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the children, as,
breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. 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 d