How she wished that fair child to run out! How she hoped to hear even
one word of the only language she understood! No matter her French
origin, Cecile was all English at this moment. Toby stood by her side
patiently enough.
Toby, too, was in great trouble and perplexity about Maurice, but
his present strongest instinct was to get at a very fat fowl which,
unconscious of danger, was scratching up worms at its leisure within
almost reach of his nose.
Toby had a weakness, nay, a vice, in the direction of fowl; he liked
to hunt them. He could not imagine why Cecile did not go in at that
low gate which stood a little open close by. Where was the use of
remaining still, in any case, so near temptation? The unwary fowl
came close, very close. Toby could stand it no longer. He made a
spring, a snap, and caught at its beak.
Then ensued a fuss and an uproar; every fowl in the place commenced
to give voice in the cause of an injured comrade. Cackle, cackle,
crow, crow, from, it seemed, hundreds of throats. Toby retired
actually abashed, and out at the same moment, from under the
rose-covered porch, came the pretty fair-haired boy. The child was
instantly followed by an old woman, a regular Frenchwoman, upright,
straight as a dart, with coal-black eyes and snowy hair tidily put
away under a tall peasant's cap.
Cecile heard her utter a French exclamation, then chide pretty
sharply the uproarious birds. Toby lying _perdu_ behind the
hedge, the fowl were naturally chided for much ado about nothing.
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