their chaplets at Juvisy; and six o'clock was striking, and
they were rushing like a hurricane past the station of Bretigny, when
Sister Hyacinthe stood up. It was she who directed the pious exercises,
which most of the pilgrims followed from small, blue-covered books.

"The Angelus, my children," said she with a pleasant smile, a maternal
air which her great youth rendered very charming and sweet.

Then the "Aves" again followed one another, and were drawing to an end
when Pierre and Marie began to feel interested in two women who occupied
the other corner seats of their compartment. One of them, she who sat at
Marie's feet, was a blonde of slender build and _bourgeoise_ appearance,
some thirty and odd years of age, and faded before she had grown old. She
shrank back, scarcely occupying any room, wearing a dark dress, and
showing colourless hair, and a long grief-stricken face which expressed
unlimited self-abandonment, infinite sadness. The woman in front of her,
she who sat on the same seat as Pierre, was of the same age, but belonged
to the working classes. She wore a black cap and displayed a face ravaged
by wretchedness and anxiety, whilst on her lap she held a little girl of
seven, who was so pale, so wasted by illness, that she scarcely seemed
four. With her nose contracted, her eyelids lowered and showing blue in
her waxen face, the child was unable to speak, unable to give utterance
to more than a low plaint, a gentle moan, which rent the heart of her
mother, leaning over her, each time that she heard it.

"Would she eat a few grapes?" timidly asked the lady, who had hitherto
preserved silence. "I have some in my basket."

"Thank you, madame," replied the woman, "she only takes milk, and
sometimes not even that willingly. I took care to bring a bottleful with
me."

Then, giving way to the desire which possesses the wretched to confide
their woes to others, she began to relate her story. Her name was
Vincent, and her husband, a gilder by trade, had been carried off by
consumption. Left alone with her little Rose, who was the passion of her
heart, she had worked by day and night at her calling as a dressmaker in
order to bring the child up. But disease had come, and for fourteen
months now she had had her in her arms like that, growing more and more
woeful and wasted until reduced almost to nothingness. She, the mother,
who never went to mass, entered a church, impelled by despair to pray for
her daughter's