s being warmed in wrought-iron pans, whilst the preserved
milk in tins was diluted and supplied as occasion required. There were
some other provisions, such as biscuits, fruit, and chocolate, on a few
shelves. But Sister Saint-Francois, to whom the service was entrusted, a
short, stout woman of five-and-forty, with a good-natured fresh-coloured
face, was somewhat losing her head in the presence of all the hands so
eagerly stretched towards her. Whilst continuing her distribution, she
lent ear to Pierre, as he called the doctor, who with his travelling
pharmacy occupied another corner of the van. Then, when the young priest
began to explain matters, speaking of the poor unknown man who was dying,
a sudden desire came to her to go and see him, and she summoned another
Sister to take her place.

"Oh! I wished to ask you, Sister, for some broth for a passenger who is
ill," said Pierre, at that moment turning towards her.

"Very well, Monsieur l'Abbe, I will bring some. Go on in front."

The doctor and the abbe went off in all haste, rapidly questioning and
answering one another, whilst behind them followed Sister Saint-Francois,
carrying the bowl of broth with all possible caution amidst the jostling
of the crowd. The doctor was a dark-complexioned man of eight-and-twenty,
robust and extremely handsome, with the head of a young Roman emperor,
such as may still be occasionally met with in the sunburnt land of
Provence. As soon as Sister Hyacinthe caught sight of him, she raised an
exclamation of surprise: "What! Monsieur Ferrand, is it you?" Indeed,
they both seemed amazed at meeting in this manner.

It is, however, the courageous mission of the Sisters of the Assumption
to tend the ailing poor, those who lie in agony in their humble garrets,
and cannot pay for nursing; and thus these good women spend their lives
among the wretched, installing themselves beside the sufferer's pallet in
his tiny lodging, and ministering to every want, attending alike to
cooking and cleaning, and living there as servants and relatives, until
either cure or death supervenes. And it was in this wise that Sister
Hyacinthe, young as she was, with her milky face, and her blue eyes which
ever laughed, had installed herself one day in the abode of this young
fellow, Ferrand, then a medical student, prostrated by typhoid fever, and
so desperately poor that he lived in a kind of loft reached by a ladder,
in the Rue du Four. And from that moment she h