would not tell."
"No, you are right, Madeleine would not tell, and did not tell. A little bird told me, my poor Fifine, and it was sad news for him to carry this lovely morning," and shaking his head, the curé turned and walked slowly away.
"A little bird indeed," repeated five years old Fifine to herself contemptuously. "That is what they tell babies. I know better. A little bird only means 'somebody' told. Besides, there are no nests on that side of the house. Who could it be? Mimi, tell me, don't be stupid now. Who do you think it was?" and as Mimi made no reply, Fifine shook her, which drew forth a plaintive squeak and a struggle to get out of her mistress's arms. This made Fifine still more angry. She flung Mimi down, the poor cat – for a worm will turn – glowered up at her, with a rather ugly look in her green eyes, and slunk off.
"I have it," exclaimed Fifine. "You nasty, mean, spiteful cat. It was you who told. I remember you were on the window-sill, and then I didn't see you any more, till I found you out here in the garden coming back from your visit next door, no doubt! Ah, you may pretend it wasn't you. You can't speak, but you can tell things all the same, and Monsieur le curé is clever enough to understand. Why, he has often told me he can understand what his old dog Platon says by the way he wags his tail. You, too, were the only person who saw me hit Madeleine. Mean cat; but I shall punish you," and off dashed the indignant Fifine in pursuit of Mimi.
The summer day passed quickly. Sweet-tempered Madeleine soon forgot the offence she was only too ready to forgive, and in merry play with some little friends, the troubles of the morning were quickly out of mind. Tired with fun and excitement, Fifine fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. She had slept several hours when she suddenly woke. It was quite dark – the very middle of the summer night – at first not a sound broke the silence. Then faintly, but distinctly, came through the half-opened window a low piteous wail – again and again. Fifine sat up to listen. There was no sound from the larger room next door, where Madeleine slept beside the nurse. No one was awake but Fifine, and again, and again came that pitiful mew. Yes, it was a mew, and up jumped Fifine at last.
The curé had sat up late that evening, reading, his window open to the pleasant night-air. He closed his book at last, and was turning to put out the lamp, when a little sound made him look round. There, at the low window, stood a little white-robed, bare-footed figure, sobbing bitterly.
"Oh, sir, oh, sir, come and let Mimi out. I shut her into the tool-house, because I thought she had told you about my hitting Madeleine, and I can't get her out, and she will die of hunger – my poor Mimi – since yesterday morning she has had nothing to eat, and nobody is awake but you. I have come all alone in the dark. I forgot all about her," and the sobs redoubled.
In five minutes the kind curé had managed to open the door which the gardener had locked, and Mimi was safe in Fifine's arms.
"And suppose it was not Mimi who told me?" said the good old man as he carried the little girl home again.
"I was naughty, but I didn't mean to leave Mimi all day. You said it was a little bird, sir, but I know that is only baby-talk."
"Yes, my child, and I am sorry I did not tell you who it really was. It was your dear mamma, my Fifine, who overheard your fit of temper and asked me to speak to you seriously. Will this be a lesson to you? See what angry temper leads to – hurting your sister, and nearly killing your poor cat."
"Forgive me, I will try to be better; indeed I will," sobbed Fifine.
"And ask God to help you, my dear little girl," said the kind curé, as he bade her good-night.
THE LONG LADDER
THE sun had set, and the deep blue darkness of a summer night was creeping over the sky. One by one the stars came out, and little Max stood by the window gazing up at them in admiration. He had never before seen so many, for it was long past his usual bed-time, and he had been allowed to sit up late for a great treat, as it was his birthday. Inside the room his mother was reading by a little table on which stood a lamp, but the curtains were drawn across the windows, and Max had crept behind them, so that the bright light inside did not prevent his seeing the infinitely brighter ones, that up there, millions and millions of miles away, came sparkling out one after the other, as if the sky lamp-lighter were slowly going his errands. Max felt as if he could stand there for ever, watching. But there came the summons.
"Max, my boy. You must go to bed now."
"Yes, mamma," and the small figure crept out and held up its face for a good-night kiss. Then "mamma," he began, hesitatingly.
"Well, Max," and mamma raised her eyes again for a moment from her book. It was a very interesting book, and mamma had had her little boy with her all day, and had done her best to make him happy. Perhaps she was a little tired, and felt that she had earned some rest for herself.
"Mamma, is it God that puts them all there?" he asked. "All the little stars?" and he pointed towards the window.
"Yes, dear. You know it is. It is God that does everything good and pretty and kind – up there and down here too."
"Him makes the flowers in the garden," observed Max.
"Yes, dear, you know He does," answered mamma, her eyes turning back to her book again. "Good-night, Maxie."
"Good-night, mamma. But mamma – "
"Well, dear," without looking up this time.
"I was just thinking, when Him's done down here, you know, and wants to go up there again, what a very long ladder Him must need."
"Yes, of course," said mamma, quite lost in her story by now.
"I wonder," continued Max, "I wonder if Him ever leaves it in the garden after Him's gone up – after Him has been doing the flowers, you know, mamma."
"I daresay – yes, very likely. Now do go, Max."
"Does you really think so, mamma?" and Max's eyes, which had begun to look as if the dustman had been passing by, grew bright and eager again. "I'll look and see if I can't find it then, some day," he said to himself, as he climbed up-stairs. For Max felt sure that whatever mamma said must be true. And wonderful dreams came to the little four-year-old man that night – dreams compared with which, all that Jack found at the top of his famous bean-stalk would have seemed nothing.
The next morning brought unlooked-for disappointment to the little fellow, for it was rainy and stormy. No going out for Max – he must stay quietly in the nursery. And he looked so very sad about it that mamma was a little surprised: he was usually so cheerful and contented.
"You had plenty of running about yesterday, Maxie," she said. "We cannot expect it always to be fine. To-morrow will be sunny again very likely," and at this Max brightened up again.
"Him will bring the ladder then, perhaps," he said to himself.
Mamma proved a true prophet, "To-morrow" was a lovely day. So lovely that she and Max's father drove away to some distance, leaving word that they would not be back till the evening.
"Good-bye, darling. Be a good boy. Nurse will let you play in the garden all the afternoon," were their last words to the happy little face waving good-bye from the window.
But late that evening when they returned, they were met by a crowd of white-faced frightened servants, with a sad story to tell. "Master Max was not to be found. They had hunted up and down —everywhere. He was playing in the garden beside nurse, and she just left
