Babette nodded. She was between tears and smiles. There was grief, true
and deep, at leaving the dear old aunt, who had been so good to her and
to her child. There was joy at the thought of seeing again the brave
young husband whom she had wedded in the little village church two years
before, and from whom the parting had been so bitter, when he left her,
just before the birth of their baby boy, to seek work in the
Belgian capital.

But there was no time to waste. After the simple mid-day meal there were
many things to be done, and all through the short winter day they were
busy. There was a bundle of warm wraps to be put together for Babette to
take with her. Her little trunk, with Pierre's cradle, and some odds and
ends of furniture, would follow in a few days, when her aunt had
collected and packed them all. Her little store of money was counted
over. Alas! it was very slender. She must travel quickly and cheaply if
it was to last her till she reached Brussels.

"Jean's cart will take you as far as 'Les Trois Frères,'" said the old
lady, cheerfully, after finding that counting the little heap of francs
and half-francs over and over did not increase them. "That will save
something. You can catch the coach that stops there at two, and by six
you will be in Brussels. I pray the little one may not take cold."

Babette agreed to all her aunt suggested. Jean was a farmer of the
village; well-to-do and good-natured. She knew he would gladly give her
a seat in his waggon, which was going next day to "Les Trois Frères," an
inn six miles from the village. The coach for Brussels stopped there
twice a week, and when once she had taken her place in it, the worst of
her journey would be over.