Only I was forgetting to tell you there came a bad year.

Everything was bad--the cows died, the harvest was poor, the fruit failed.

To the last, the bon papa hoped that 'le pommier de la petite' would do well, though nothing else did, but it was not so.
There was a good show of blossom, but when it came to the apples, _every one_ was blighted.

And the strange thing was, my little young ladies and little Monsieur, that that was the year the small-pox came--ah, it was a dreadful year!--and we all caught it." "_All ?_" exclaimed Sylvia.
"Yes, indeed, Mademoiselle--all the seven, that is to say, that were at home.

I cannot remember it well--I was myself too ill, but we all had it.
I was the worst, and they thought I would die.