all, fevered hand. The woman burst into tears.

"Madame," she said, "it is a twenty-franc piece."

"Yes," said Laure gently. "When it is spent come to me again," and she
went to her carriage.

"My child," said Mere Giraud, "it is you who are a saint. The good God
did wisely in showering blessings upon you."

A few days longer she was happy, and then she awakened from her sleep
one night, and found Laure standing at her bedside looking down at her
and shuddering. She started up with an exclamation of terror.

"_Mon Dieu!_" she said. "What is it?"

She was answered in a voice she had never heard before,--Laure's, but
hoarse and shaken. Laure had fallen upon her knees, and grasped the
bedclothes, hiding her face in the folds.

"I am ill," she answered in this strange, changed tone. "I am--I am cold
and burning--I am--dying."

In an instant Mere Giraud stood upon the floor holding her already
insensible form in her arm'. She was obliged to lay her upon the floor
while she rang the bell to alarm the servants. She sent for Valentin
and a doctor. The doctor, arriving, regarded the beautiful face with
manifest surprise and alarm. It was no longer pale, but darkly flushed,
and the stamp of terrible pain was upon it.

"She has been exposed to infection," he said. "This is surely the case.
It is a malignant fever."

Then Mere Giraud thought of the poor mother and child.

"O my God!" she prayed, "do not let her die a martyr."

But the next day there was not a servant left in the house; but Valentin
was there, and there had come a Sister of Mercy. When she came, Valentin
met her, and led her into the _salon_. They remained together for half
an hour, and then came out and went to the sick-room, and there were
traces of tears upon the Sister's face. She was a patient, tender
creature, who did her work well, and she listened with untiring
gentleness to Mere Giraud's passionate plaints.

"So beautiful, so young, so beloved," cried the poor mother; "and
Monsieur absent in Normandy, though it is impossible to say where! And
if death should come before his return, who could confront him with the
truth? So beautiful, so happy, so adored!"

And Laure lay upon the bed, sometimes wildly delirious, sometimes a
dreadful statue of stone,--unhearing, unseeing, unmoving,--death without
death's rest,--life in death's bonds of iron.

But while Mere Giraud wept, Valentin had no tears. He was faithful,
untiring, but silent even at the