l that he spoke to me."

"I don't know how much an Eastern donkey would bring in Paris, but we'll
see as soon as we can," said the sick woman.

Leaving her mother to rest, Perrine got together their soiled clothing
and decided to do some washing. Adding her own waist to a bundle
consisting of three handkerchiefs, two pairs of stockings and two
combinations, she put them all into a basin, and with her washboard and
a piece of soap she went outside. She had ready some boiling water which
she had put on the fire after cooking the rice; this she poured over the
things. Kneeling on the grass, she soaped and rubbed until all were
clean; then she rinsed them and hung them on a line to dry.

While she worked, Palikare, who was tied up at a short distance from
her, had glanced her way several times. When he saw that she had
finished her task he stretched his neck towards her and sent forth five
or six brays ... an imperative call.

"Did you think I had forgotten you?" she called out. She went to him,
changed his place, gave him some water to drink from her saucepan, which
she had carefully rinsed, for if he was satisfied with all the food that
they gave him, he was very particular about what he drank. He would only
drink pure water from a clean vessel, or red wine ... this he liked
better than anything.

She stroked him and talked to him lovingly, like a kind nurse would to a
little child, and the donkey, who had thrown himself down on the grass
the moment he was free, placed his head against her shoulder. He loved
his young mistress, and every now and again he looked up at her and
shook his long ears in sign of utter content.

All was quiet in the field and the streets close by were now deserted.
From the distance came the dim roar of the great city, deep, powerful,
mysterious; the breath and life of Paris, active and incessant, seemed
like the roar of a mighty ocean going on and on, in spite of the night
that falls.

Then, in the softness of the coming night, little Perrine seemed to feel
more impressed with the talk that she had had with her mother, and
leaning her head against her donkey's, she let the tears, which she had
kept back so long, flow silently, and Palikare, in mute sympathy, bent
his head and licked her hands.

CHAPTER II

GRAIN-OF-SALT IS KIND

Many times that night Perrine, lying beside her mother, had jumped up and
run to the well for water so as to have it fresh. In spite of her desire to