self under the blue heavens, with a world of
sweet summer sights and sounds around her, as she lay on her
little improvised couch amongst the flowers and sweet-smelling
herbs.

"There," said Jeanne-Marie, contemplating her with much
satisfaction, "now you have nothing to do but to get well
again as fast as you can."

"Ah, I shall soon be well now!" cried Madelon, joyfully. The
colour came into her pale cheeks, her eyes shone with a new
light. Mists, and rain, and darkness seemed to have fled from
her life, and in their place a full tide of summer sunshine,
in which the birds sang gladly, and the flowers seemed to
spring up and open unconsciously, was crowning and glorifying
the day.

That she had nothing to do but to get well, was not at all
Madelon's idea, however. A few evenings later, as she lay
awake in her bed, watching Jeanne-Marie moving about in the
twilight, arranging things for the night, she said,--

"Jeanne-Marie, I want to earn some money."

"Some money, little one! What is that for?"

"Ah, that I cannot tell you; but I want some, very much--thirty
francs at least. See here, I have been thinking--I can
embroider--Soeur Lucie said I could do it almost as well as she
could; do you think you could get me some to do? Ah, please
help me. I should like to earn some money."

Two days afterwards, Jeanne-Marie produced two strips of
cloth, such as are used for purposes of church decoration,
with patterns and materials for embroidery.

"Is that the sort of thing?" she said. "If you could do these,
you would get thirty francs for them, I daresay; I will see
that they are disposed of."

"I will try," said Madelon. "Jeanne-Marie, how good you are to
me!--whatever I want, you do for me!"

"That is nothing," said the woman, and went abruptly away to
attend to her customers.

So, all the long summer days, Madelon sat through hot
noontides in the shady garden below, through golden sunsets at
the open window of her room above, stitching with silks and
gold and silver thread, till her weak little fingers ached,
and the task seemed as if it would never be done. Down in the
homely neglected little garden, all a sweet tangle of flowers
and weeds, she would seat herself; the birds would twitter
overhead, the bees would come humming round her amongst the
unpruned vines and roses that clambered everywhere, while the
embroidery pattern slowly grew beneath her fingers. She worked
steadily and well, but she could no