though the garden be small and the folks poor, God is good and the
sunshine and showers come and things grow. And for fuel one can gather
fagots if they are near a wood.

They would go to Barbizon--Barbizon, that tiny village on the edge of the
Forest of Fontainebleau. Several artists who had been there in the Summer
sketching had told them of it. The city was gradually smothering Jean
Francois. He prayed for a sight of the great open stretches of pasture,
and green woods and winding river.

And now it was all so near.

He set to work feverishly to paint the great picture that was to bring
deliverance.

At last the picture was done and sent to the Director's.

Days of anxious waiting followed.

The picture was accepted and paid for.

Jean Francois and Catherine cried and laughed for joy, as they tumbled
their belongings into bags and bundles. The grocer who had trusted them
took some of their furniture for pay, and a baker and a shoemaker
compromised by accepting a picture apiece. They were going to
Barbizon--going to the country--going to freedom! And so the father and
the mother and the queer-looking, yellow children were perched on the top
of the diligence with their bundles, bound for Barbizon. They looked into
each other's faces and their joy was too great for speech.