at do you want now, pray?"

Slowly and sheepishly and with head bowed, Bouzille approached mother
Chiquard, nervously looking out for a whack over the head with the broom
the old lady held.

"Don't be cross," he pleaded when he could get in a word; "I want to
come to an arrangement with you, mother Chiquard, if it can be done."

"That's all according," said the old woman, eyeing the tramp with great
mistrust; "I haven't much faith in arrangements with you: rascals like
you always manage to do honest folk."

Mother Chiquard turned back into her cottage; it was no weather for her
to stop out of doors, for a strong north wind was blowing, and that was
bad for her rheumatism. Bouzille deliberately followed her inside and
closed the door carefully behind him. Without ceremony he walked up to
the hearth, where a scanty wood fire was burning, and put down his pack
so as to be able to rub his hands more freely.

"Miserable weather, mother Chiquard!"

The obstinate old lady stuck to her one idea.

"If it isn't miserable to steal my rabbit, this is the finest weather
that ever I saw!"

"You make a lot of fuss about a trifle," the tramp protested,
"especially since you will be a lot the better by the arrangement I'm
going to suggest."

The notion calmed mother Chiquard a little, and she sat down on a form,
while Bouzille took a seat upon the table.

"What do you mean?" the old woman enquired.

"Well," said Bouzille, "I suppose your rabbit would have fetched a
couple of shillings in the market; I've brought you two fowls that are
worth quite eighteen-pence each, and if you will give me some dinner at
twelve o'clock I will put in a good morning's work for you."

Mother Chiquard looked at the clock upon the wall; it was eight o'clock.
The tramp's proposal represented four hours' work, which was not to be
despised; but before striking the bargain she insisted on seeing the
fowls. These were extracted from the pack; tied together by the feet,
and half suffocated, the unfortunate creatures were not much to look at,
but they would be cheap, which was worth considering.

"Where did you get these fowls?" mother Chiquard asked, more as a matter
of form than anything else, for she was pretty sure they had not been
honestly come by.

Bouzille put his finger to his lip.

"Hush!" he murmured gently; "that's a secret between me and the poultry.
Well, is it a go?" and he held out his hand to the old lady.

She hesitated a mome