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mounted on her donkey, Jan,
    And took the mill-ward road.*
    Marian’ s’en allant au moulin,
    Pour y faire moudre son grain,
    Ell monta sur son âne,
    Ma p’tite mam’sell’ Marianne!
    Ell’ monta sur son âne Martin
    Pour aller au moulin.
    But Honey-Bee stopped:
    â€œI have lost my shoe, my satin shoe,” she cried. And so it was. The little shoe, whose silken laces had become loose in walking, lay in the road covered-with dust. Then as she looked back and saw the towers of the castle of Clarides fade into the distant twilight her heart sank and the tears came to her eyes.
    â€œThe wolves will eat us,” she cried, “and our mother will never see us again and she will die of grief.”
    But George comforted her as he put on her shoe.
    â€œWhen the castle bell rings for supper we shall have returned to Clarides. Come!”
    The miller saw her coming nigh
    And could not well forbear to cry,
    Your donkey you must tether.
    My dainty maiden, Marian,
    Tether you here your donkey, Jan,
    Who brought us twain together.*
    Le meunier qui la voit venir
    Ne peut s’empêcher de lui dire:
    Attachez là votre âne,
    Ma p’tite Mam’sell’ Marianne,
    Attachez là votre âne Martin
    Qui vous mène au moulin.
    â€œThe lake, Honey-Bee! See the lake, the lake, the lake!”
    â€œYes, George, the lake!”
    George shouted “hurrah” and flung his hat in the air. Honey-Bee was too proper to fling hers up also, so taking off the shoe that wouldn’t stay on she threw it joyfully over her head.
    There lay the lake in the depths of the valley and its curved and sloping banks made a framework of foliage and flowers about its silver waves. It lay there clear and tranquil, and one could see the swaying of the indistinct green of its banks.
    But the children could find no path through the underbrush that would lead to its beautiful waters.
    While they were searching for one their legs were nipped by some geese driven by a little girl dressed in a sheepskin and carrying a switch. George asked her name.
    â€œGilberte.”
    â€œWell, then, Gilberte, how can one go to the lake?”
    â€œFolks doesn’t go.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause …”
    â€œBut supposing folks did?”
    â€œIf folks did there’d be a path, and one would take that path.”
    George could think of no adequate reply to this guardian of the geese.
    â€œLet’s go,” he said, “farther on we shall be sure to find a way through the woods.”
    â€œAnd we will pick nuts and eat them,” said Honey-Bee, “for I am hungry. The next time we go to the lake we must bring a satchel full of good things to eat.”
    â€œThat we will, little sister,” said George. “And I quite agree with Francoeur, our squire, who when he went to Rome, took a ham with him, in case he should hunger, and a flask lest he should be thirsty. But hurry, for it is growing late, though I don’t know the time.”
    â€œThe shepherdesses know by looking at the sun,” said Honey-Bee; “but I am not a shepherdess. Yet it seems to me that when we left the sun was over our head, and now it is down there, far behind the town and castle of Clarides. I wonder if this happens every day and what it means?”
    While they looked at the sun a cloud of dust rose up from the high road, and they saw some cavaliers with glittering weapons ride past at full speed. The children hid in the underbrush in great terror. “They are thieves or probably ogres,” they thought. They were really guards sent by the Duchess of Clarides in search of the little truants.
    The two little adventurers found a footpath in the underbrush, not a lovers’ lane, for it was impossible to walk side by side holding hands as is the fashion of lovers. Nor could the print of human footsteps be seen, but only indentations left by innumerable tiny cloven feet.
    â€œThose are