foot. She comes
from Spain; she has no passport and no money; she was carrying her baby
on her back, and the child was dying. I could not refuse to take her
in. I went up to see her this morning myself; for when she turned up
yesterday, it made me feel dreadfully bad to look at her. Poor soul!
she and the child were lying in bed, and both of them at death's door.
'Madame,' says she, pulling a gold ring off her finger, 'this is all
that I have left; take it in payment, it will be enough; I shall not
stay here long. Poor little one! we shall die together soon!' she said,
looking at the child. I took her ring, and I asked her who she was, but
she never would tell me her name.... I have just sent for the doctor and
M. le Maire."

"Why, you must do all that can be done for her," cried the Marquise.
"Good heavens! perhaps it is not too late! I will pay for everything
that is necessary----"

"Ah! my lady, she looks to me uncommonly proud, and I don't know that
she would allow it."

"I will go to see her at once."

The Marquise went up forthwith to the stranger's room, without thinking
of the shock that the sight of her widow's weeds might give to a woman
who was said to be dying. At the sight of that dying woman the Marquise
turned pale. In spite of the changes wrought by fearful suffering in
Helene's beautiful face, she recognized her eldest daughter.

But Helene, when she saw a woman dressed in black, sat upright in bed
with a shriek of horror. Then she sank back; she knew her mother.

"My daughter," said Mme. d'Aiglemont, "what is to be done? Pauline!...
Moina!..."

"Nothing now for me," said Helene faintly. "I had hoped to see my father
once more, but your mourning--" she broke off, clutched her child to her
heart as if to give it warmth, and kissed its forehead. Then she turned
her eyes on her mother, and the Marquise met the old reproach in them,
tempered with forgiveness, it is true, but still reproach. She saw it,
and would not see it. She forgot that Helene was the child conceived
amid tears and despair, the child of duty, the cause of one of the
greatest sorrows in her life. She stole to her eldest daughter's side,
remembering nothing but that Helene was her firstborn, the child who had
taught her to know the joys of motherhood. The mother's eyes were full
of tears. "Helene, my child!..." she cried, with her arms about her
daughter.

Helene was silent. Her own babe had just drawn its last breath on her
bre