th, and you will look like a little king."

And so she twines together the white flowers, the yellow flowers, and
the red flowers, into a chaplet. She puts it on little Jean's head, and
he flushes with pride and pleasure. She kisses her little brother, lifts
him in her arms and plants him, all garlanded with blossoms, on a big
stone. Then she looks at him admiringly, because he is beautiful and
_she_ has made him so.

And standing there on his rustic pedestal, little Jean knows he is
beautiful, and the thought fills him with a deep respect for himself. He
feels he is something holy. Very upright and still, with round eyes and
tight-drawn lips, arms by his side with the palms open and the fingers
parted like the spokes of a wheel, he tastes a pious joy to be an
idol--he is sure he is an idol now. The sky is overhead, the woods
and fields lie at his feet. He is the hub of the universe. He alone is
great, he alone is beautiful.

But suddenly Catherine breaks into a laugh. She shouts:

"Oh! how funny you look, little Jean! how funny you do look!"

She runs up and throws her arms round him, she kisses him and shakes
him; the heavy wreath of flowers slips down over his nose. And she
laughs again:

"Oh! how funny he looks! how very funny!"

But it is no laughing matter for little Jean. He is sad and sorry,
wondering why it is all over and he has left off being beautiful. It
hurts to come down to earth again!

Now the wreath is unwound and tossed on the grass, and little Jean is
like anybody else once more. Yes, he has left off being beautiful. But
he is still a sturdy young scamp. He soon has his whip in hand again and
now he is hauling his team of six, the six big carthorses of his dreams,
out of that rut. Catherine is still playing with her flowers. But some
of them are dying. Others are closing in sleep. For the flowers go to
sleep like the animals, and look! the campanulas, plucked a few hours
ago, are shutting their purple bells and sinking asleep in the little
hands that have parted them from life.

A light breeze blows by, and Catherine shivers. It is night coming.

"I am hungry," says little Jean.

But Catherine has not a bit of bread to give her little brother. She
says:

"Little brother, let 's go back to the house."

And they both think of the cabbage soup steaming in the pot that hangs
from the hook right under the great chimney. Catherine gathers her
flowers in her arm and taking her little brother