The next morning Angélique, Amédée’s wife, was in the kitchen baking pies, assisted by old Mrs. Chevalier. Between the mixing-board and the stove stood the old cradle that had been Amédée’s, and in it was his black-eyed son.
As Angélique, flushed and excited, with flour on her hands, stopped to smile at the baby, Emil Bergson rode up to the kitchen door on his mare and dismounted.
'’Médée is out in the field, Emil,' Angélique called as she ran across the kitchen to the oven. 'He begins to cut his wheat to-day; the first wheat ready to cut anywhere about here.
He bought a new header, you know, because all the wheat’s so short this year. I hope he can rent it to the neighbors, it cost so much. He and his cousins bought a steam thresher on shares. You ought to go out and see that header work.
I watched it an hour this morning, busy as I am with all the men to feed. He has a lot of hands, but he’s the only one that knows how to drive the header or how to run the engine, so he has to be everywhere at once.
He’s sick, too, and ought to be in his bed. ' Emil bent over Hector Baptiste, trying to make him blink his round, bead-like black eyes. 'Sick? What’s the matter with your daddy, kid? Been making him walk the floor with you? ' Angélique sniffed. 'Not much!
We don’t have that kind of babies. It was his father that kept Baptiste awake. All night I had to be getting up and making mustard plasters to put on his stomach. He had an awful colic.
He said he felt better this morning, but I don’t think he ought to be out in the field, overheating