“His life!” repeated Abby, gazing after him as he strode away down the street.  “Much like his life she is, the pretty creetur!  And she saying that fiddle was her life, only yesterday!  How are all these lives going to work together? that’s what I want to know!” And she shook her head, and went back to her spinning.  There was no doubt in Abby’s mind about Marie’s answer, when she grew a little used to the new idea.  Her silent suitor was many years older than she, it was true, but as she said to him, what a chance for the friendless wanderer!  And if he loved her now, how much more he would love her when he came to know her well, and see all her pretty ways about the house, like a kitten or a bird.  And she would respect and admire him, that was certain, Abby thought.  He was a pictur’ of a man, when he got his store clothes on, and nobody had ever had a word to say against him.  He was no talker, but some thought that was no drawback in the married state.  Abby remembered how Sister Lizzie’s young husband had tormented her with foolish questions during the week he bad spent with them at the time of the marriage:  a spruce young clerk from a city store, not knowing one end of a hoe from the other, and asking questions all the time, and not remembering anything you told him long enough for it to get inside his head; though there was room enough inside for consid’able many ideas, Abby thought.  Yes, certainly, if so be one had to be portioned with a husband, the one that said least would be the least vexation in the end.  So she was content, on the whole, and glad that Marie took it all so quietly and sensibly, and made no doubt the girl was turning it over in her mind, and making ready a real pretty answer for Jacques when he called the next day.

Yes, Marie was turning it over in her mind, but not just in the way her good hostess supposed.  Only one thought came to her, but that thought filled her whole mind; she must get away,—­away at once from this place, from the stern man with the evil eye, who wanted to take her and kill her slowly, that he might have the pleasure of seeing her die.  Ah, she knew, Marie! had she not seen wicked people before?  But she would not tell Abiroc, for it would only grieve her, and she would talk, talk, and Marie wanted no talking.  She only wanted to get away, out into the open fields once more, where nobody would look at her or want to marry her, and where roads might be found leading away to golden cities, full of children who liked to hear play the violin, and who danced when one played it well.

Early next morning, while Abby was out milking the cows, Marie stole away.  She put on her little blue gown again; ah! how old and faded it looked beside the fresh, pretty-prints that Abby would always have her wear!  But it was her own, and when she had it on, and the old handkerchief tied under her chin once more, and Madame in her box, ready to go with her the world over, why, then she felt that she was Marie once more; that this had all been a mistake, this sojourn among the strange, kind people who spoke so loud and through such long noses; that now her life was to begin, as she had really meant it to begin when she ran away from Le Boss and his hateful tyranny.