me blush to have any one look at me. When I worked at the shop, there was a gentleman who came every day and always gazed persistently at me while talking to Madame Jourdan, and it mortified me to death."
"Yes, but at heart you were pleased; and when you are old you will remember it. You will then have something like a reflection of your youth; while I see nothing but gloom, and don't even know if I was ever young. But as for being ugly, I am sure of that."
"Oh! godmother!"
"Yes, I was so ugly that I could not bear the sight of a mirror. The consequence was that I found nothing better than a drunken husband, who nearly killed me with blows; and I was even deprived of the chance of rejoicing over his death, for I was obliged to pay his debts at the wine-shop. Then I became a cripple, and would starve were it not for you."
"You are unjust, godmother," observed Mariette, with a tender smile, trying to dispel her melancholy. "To my knowledge, you have had one happy day, at least, in your life."
"Which was that?"
"The day you gave me shelter, after my mother's death. Did not the good action give you satisfaction and make you happy for the day?"
"Well, if you call that a happy day—I want no more like it."
"Why?"
"It was rather one of my worst days!"
"Oh! godmother!" expostulated the girl sadly.
"Since my wretched husband's death, I had but myself to care for; but in taking charge of you, it was like being left a widow with a child to support. I call that anything but gay, when a woman can scarcely earn her own living. But you looked so charming with your pretty curly head and large blue eyes, and you seemed so sad kneeling beside your mother's coffin, that I had not the heart to let them take you to the asylum. And what a dreary night I spent, wondering what I would do with you, and what would become of you if work failed me! And you call that a happy day? No, no! Had I been in comfortable circumstances, I would have felt that your future was assured and been happy. But to merely exchange your misery for worse still was nothing to rejoice over."
"Well, let us say no more about days," said Mariette soothingly, smiling through her tears, "but let us speak of moments; for I am determined to show that you have experienced some happiness. Now, for instance, take this moment—"
"Well, what of it?"
"I am sure that you are happy to see that I have dried my tears, thanks to your kind words."
The sick woman shook her head sadly.
"Do you know what I think when I get over my bad humor?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I think that you must hate me for my harshness and injustice toward you. And I deserve it, too."
"Now you are going back to your melancholy thoughts," said the girl reproachfully.
"Admit that I am right. It's only natural, after all. You kill yourself working for me, you feed and nurse me, and I repay you with harsh words only. My death would indeed be a relief to you; and the sooner I am laid in my coffin the better."
"I know you are jesting once more," rejoined Mariette, making an effort to smile, though her heart was full to bursting.
"Well, if I am only jesting, little one, don't look so grieved," returned the old woman, touched by the girl's evident distress. "Now put the milk on the fire, and bandage my arm while waiting for it to boil."
Mariette was as delighted over these orders as though they had been the kindest words in the world. She hastily lighted the fire; cut up their only remaining piece of bread into a dish of milk, placed it on the stove, and returned to the invalid.
In spite of the repugnance which the putrid sore inspired in her, Mariette showed as much patience as dexterity in cleansing and bandaging the mutilated arm; and the young girl's devotion, as well as her noble resignation, touched the woman's heart anew.
"Sisters of Charity are often praised, my dear," she said admiringly, "but none of them deserve half the praise you do."
"But those good sisters devote their time to strangers, godmother," protested the girl modestly, "while you are like a mother to me. I only do my duty, and therefore have no merit."
"Poor child, my affection for you brings you but little happiness. Only a few moments ago I made you burst into tears; and to-morrow will be the same as to-day."
To escape from a reply to these bitter words, Mariette brought the steaming milk, which the invalid drank with appetite, and then busied herself in making the bed more comfortable.
"What will you eat, Mariette?" asked the old woman, as she swallowed the last spoonful.
"Oh! I have had my breakfast," said the girl bravely. "I bought a small loaf of rye bread this morning and ate it on my way—there, now," giving a last shake to the pillow, "you must try to sleep, you had such a bad night—are you more comfortable now?"
"Yes, thank you, child."
"I shall take my work near the window; the room is dark and this is very delicate work."
"What is it?"
"A fine cambric chemise, godmother. Madame Jourdan trusted me with it only after many recommendations not to lose this magnificent Valencienne trimming, which alone is worth two hundred francs. This brings the cost to three hundred francs apiece, and there are two dozen to make. It seems they are intended for somebody's mistress," concluded the girl naïvely.
The invalid burst into a sardonic laugh.
"What is it?" asked Mariette in surprise.
"Such a funny idea."
"Ah!" ejaculated Mariette, with a vague feeling of apprehension, for she knew only too well the habitual character of her godmother's jests. "What idea, godmother?"
"I was asking myself of what use such people as you and I are in this world—wretched creatures, who know nothing but the sorrows and miseries of life; do you know, child?"
"Indeed, godmother, I scarcely know what to say."
"Why should a respectable girl like you, who has but two or three ragged chemises to her name, earn the paltry sum of twenty sous per day sewing chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, for—" She burst into another bitter laugh, and turned her face to the wall, saying: "Take up your work courageously, child! I shall try to dream of cemeteries to cheer me up!"
CHAPTER III.
Mariette's heart was fortunately too pure, and she was, moreover, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to feel the wretched bitterness of this last sarcasm. Drawing the letter she had received from her bosom, she placed it on her lap where her godmother's eyes could not reach it, and gazed longingly at it while continuing her work.
The regular breathing of the invalid soon convinced her that she was asleep, however, and she paused in her work long enough to tear open the envelope and spread the letter before her
