er. Her restaurant was well attended, for she
gave the best wine in the village, was liberal, and of an
honesty above suspicion; but even the men who were her most
constant customers did not like her, and were half afraid of
her. She held imperious rule among them, issuing imperative
commands which she expected to be obeyed, and enforcing strict
order and regularity in her house. To the women of the village
her manners were cold, abrupt, and reserved; she never stopped
to gossip or chatter; she would come and go about her business
without an unnecessary word, and the women, looking after her,
had ceased to do more than shrug their shoulders, and resume
the flow of talk her silent presence had checked.

But it was, after all, only the gay, and prosperous, and happy
that she shunned. The poor, the friendless, the erring, the
rejected of this world, were certain to find in Jeanne-Marie a
friend who never failed, one who looked out for the sorrowful
and broken-hearted, and never passed by on the other side.
Even the village children knew to whom to run when hurt, or
unhappy, or in disgrace, sure of getting consolation and
sugar-plums from the sad, lonely woman, though equally sure of
being sent away as soon as their tears were dried, and their
troubles forgotten. If the poor, abused Ugly Duckling of Hans
Andersen's tale had strayed on a wintry day to her door, she
would have taken it in, and nourished, and cherished it all
through the cold, dark weather; but when the summer was come,
and the duckling grown into a swan, spread its broad white
wings against the blue sky, she would have watched it fly away
without word or sign to detain it; she would have had nothing
in common with it then.

So to Jeanne-Marie it seemed the simplest thing in the world,
that, having found Madelon in need of help, she should help
her at the cost of any trouble to herself; that she should
take in, and cherish this poor little stray girl without
inquiry, without hope, or thought of reward. At Madelon,
happy, successful, contented, Jeanne-Marie would not have
looked a second time; but for Madelon, forsaken, shelterless,
dependent on her, she would have been ready almost to lay down
her life.

In about half an hour, Jacques Monnier returned with the
doctor. He knew Jeanne-Marie well, as he knew everyone in the
village, and went at once upstairs to the little bedroom where
Madelon was lying.

"Your niece, I think Jacques Monnier told me?" he