worried, for she woke one morning and from her window she saw him hard at work, his brown body stripped to the waist, swinging the scythe. He was not the sort of man to take revenge.
“Hurry, Lucien,” she called, “Monsieur Burnier is already mowing in the meadow. Run out and start raking in the hay.”
Lucien shuffled off to the field feeling rather embarrassed. He said good morning to Monsieur Burnier, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He hated having to work with the man he had wronged, and kept as far away as possible. Monsieur Burnier had no wish to talk to him either. It was one thing to mow a neighbor’s meadow, but quite another to chat with the boy who had injured his little son.
Annette arrived at midday with her father’s lunch wrapped up in a cloth. She took no notice of Lucien, and when he saw her coming he slunk away into the house.
It took Monsieur Burnier three days to mow the Morel meadow, and the third day was the last day of the holidays. Lucien and his mother and sister were working hard to clear the field before Lucien went back to school. They were all in the meadow when Annette appeared, as usual, with her father’s dinner. She was in a hurry, for the next day the children had to turn in their entries for the hand-work competition, and Annette still had to put the finishing touches to her sweater.
“I do wonder if I shall get that prize,” said Annette to herself. “I want it so much. But even if I don’t, Dani will look sweet in the sweater.”
The meadow lay at the back of the house, and on her way home Annette passed by the front. It was a very hot day, and Annette was thirsty. The door leading from the little balcony into the kitchen stood invitingly open.
“I will go in and have a drink from the tap,” thought Annette, climbing the balcony steps. And indeed there was no harm in that. Before the accident Annette had run in and out of the Morel kitchen as though it was her own.
When she reached the top of the steps she suddenly stopped dead and stood quite still, staring and staring.
There was a little table set against the outer side of the balcony with some carving tools and chips of wood on it. Amidst the chips was the figure of a little horse at full gallop, with waving mane and delicate hooves.
Annette stood for five whole minutes gazing at the little creature. Of course she realized that it was Lucien’s entry for the handwork competition, and the deceitful boy had never even told anyone that he was entering, or that he knew how to carve at all.
It was almost perfect, even Annette’s jealous eyes could see that. If he turned it in, he would win the prize easily. No one else’s entry would be nearly as good. And when he won the prize, everybody would begin to admire his work and perhaps they would begin to like him for it. Perhaps they would even begin to forget that he had injured Dani.
And if Lucien won the prize, he would be happy. He would walk up to receive it with his head in the air, and to see Lucien looking happy would be more than Annette could bear. Why should he be happy? He deserved never to be happy again. He would not be happy if she could help it. She felt she had arrived just at the right time.
The table stood on the level with the balcony railings, and a gust of wind fluttered the shavings of wood. A stronger gust of wind could easily blow the light little model over. No one would ever suspect anything else when they found the little horse smashed and trampled in the mud below.
Annette put out her hand and pushed it over. It fell onto the stones with a little crack, and Annette bounded down the steps and stamped on it. Anyone could accidentally tread on something that had blown over the balcony railing.
So Lucien’s horse lay in splinters among the cobblestones, and Annette walked slowly home.
But somehow the brightness had gone out of the day, and the world no longer looked quite as beautiful as before.
It was not long before she came in sight
“Hurry, Lucien,” she called, “Monsieur Burnier is already mowing in the meadow. Run out and start raking in the hay.”
Lucien shuffled off to the field feeling rather embarrassed. He said good morning to Monsieur Burnier, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He hated having to work with the man he had wronged, and kept as far away as possible. Monsieur Burnier had no wish to talk to him either. It was one thing to mow a neighbor’s meadow, but quite another to chat with the boy who had injured his little son.
Annette arrived at midday with her father’s lunch wrapped up in a cloth. She took no notice of Lucien, and when he saw her coming he slunk away into the house.
It took Monsieur Burnier three days to mow the Morel meadow, and the third day was the last day of the holidays. Lucien and his mother and sister were working hard to clear the field before Lucien went back to school. They were all in the meadow when Annette appeared, as usual, with her father’s dinner. She was in a hurry, for the next day the children had to turn in their entries for the hand-work competition, and Annette still had to put the finishing touches to her sweater.
“I do wonder if I shall get that prize,” said Annette to herself. “I want it so much. But even if I don’t, Dani will look sweet in the sweater.”
The meadow lay at the back of the house, and on her way home Annette passed by the front. It was a very hot day, and Annette was thirsty. The door leading from the little balcony into the kitchen stood invitingly open.
“I will go in and have a drink from the tap,” thought Annette, climbing the balcony steps. And indeed there was no harm in that. Before the accident Annette had run in and out of the Morel kitchen as though it was her own.
When she reached the top of the steps she suddenly stopped dead and stood quite still, staring and staring.
There was a little table set against the outer side of the balcony with some carving tools and chips of wood on it. Amidst the chips was the figure of a little horse at full gallop, with waving mane and delicate hooves.
Annette stood for five whole minutes gazing at the little creature. Of course she realized that it was Lucien’s entry for the handwork competition, and the deceitful boy had never even told anyone that he was entering, or that he knew how to carve at all.
It was almost perfect, even Annette’s jealous eyes could see that. If he turned it in, he would win the prize easily. No one else’s entry would be nearly as good. And when he won the prize, everybody would begin to admire his work and perhaps they would begin to like him for it. Perhaps they would even begin to forget that he had injured Dani.
And if Lucien won the prize, he would be happy. He would walk up to receive it with his head in the air, and to see Lucien looking happy would be more than Annette could bear. Why should he be happy? He deserved never to be happy again. He would not be happy if she could help it. She felt she had arrived just at the right time.
The table stood on the level with the balcony railings, and a gust of wind fluttered the shavings of wood. A stronger gust of wind could easily blow the light little model over. No one would ever suspect anything else when they found the little horse smashed and trampled in the mud below.
Annette put out her hand and pushed it over. It fell onto the stones with a little crack, and Annette bounded down the steps and stamped on it. Anyone could accidentally tread on something that had blown over the balcony railing.
So Lucien’s horse lay in splinters among the cobblestones, and Annette walked slowly home.
But somehow the brightness had gone out of the day, and the world no longer looked quite as beautiful as before.
It was not long before she came in sight
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