They never
appealed for outside aid, but enjoyed it in their own dark, mysterious
way. And, presently, when the washing-up was finished, and the dusk
began to dim the landscape and conceal the ghostly-looking Alps, they
retired to the inner bedroom--for this was Saturday and there were no
school tasks to be prepared--and there, seated on the big bed in the
corner, they opened a book of _cantiques_ used in school, and sang one
hymn and song after another, interrupting one another with jokes and
laughter and French and English sentences oddly mixed together. Jimbo
sang the tune, and Monkey the alto. It was by no means unpleasant to
listen to. And, upon the whole, it was a very grave business
altogether, graver even than their attitude to "Punch." Jane Anne
considered it a foolish waste of time, but she never actually said so.
She smiled her grave smile and went her own puzzled way alone.
Usually at this hour the Den presented a very different appearance,
the children, with slates and _cahiers_, working laboriously round the
table, Jane Anne and mother knitting or mending furiously, Mere
Riquette, the old cat, asleep before the fire, and a general
schoolroom air pervading the place. The father, too, tea once
finished, would depart for the little room he slept in and used as
work-place over at the carpenter's house among the vineyards.
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