He never forgets his old father." "Oh, I never forget you either, mon pere; I thought of you to-day every time I spread a crust and filled it with cherries; and when I took out a pie all brown and hot, the red juice bubbling out of it so good smelling and tempting, do you know what I said to myself ?" "How could I know, my child ?" "Well, I thought this: 'Not a single bite of that pie does Father Beret get.'" "Why so, daughter ?" "Because you said it was bad of me to read novels and told Mother Roussillon to hide them from me.

I've had any amount of trouble about it." "Ta, ta! read the good books that I gave you.

They will soon kill the taste for these silly romances." "I tried," said Alice; "I tried very hard, and it's no use; your books are dull and stupidly heavy.

What do I care about something that a queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago in times of plague and famine?
Saints must have been poky people, and it is poky people who care to read about them, I think.

I like reading about brave, heroic men and beautiful women, and war and love." Pere Beret looked away with a curious expression in his face, his eyes half closed.
"And I'll tell you now, Father Beret," Alice went on after a pause, "no more claret and pies do you get until I can have my own sort of books back again to read as I please." She stamped her moccasin-shod foot with decided energy.
The good priest broke into a hearty laugh, and taking off his cap of grass-straw mechanically scratched his bald head.