her present tranquillity came from her past sorrow. And
she stood before the grave on which was reared a simple pillar
inscribed with Jeanne's name and two dates, within which the dead
child's brief existence was compassed.

Around Helene stretched the cemetery, enveloped in its snowy pall,
through which rose rusty monuments and iron crosses, like arms thrown
up in agony. There was only one path visible in this lonely corner,
and that had been made by the footmarks of Helene and Monsieur
Rambaud. It was a spotless solitude where the dead lay sleeping. The
walks were outlined by the shadowy, phantom-like trees. Ever and anon
some snow fell noiselessly from a branch that had been too heavily
burdened. But nothing else stirred. At the far end, some little while
ago, a black tramping had passed by; some one was being buried beneath
this snowy winding-sheet. And now another funeral train appeared on
the left. Hearses and mourners went their way in silence, like shadows
thrown upon a spotless linen cloth.

Helene was awaking from her dream when she observed a beggar-woman
crawling along near her. It was Mother Fetu, the snow deadening the
sound of her huge man's boots, which were burst and bound round with
bits of string. Never had Helene seen her weighed down by such intense
misery, or covered with filthier rags, though she was fatter than
ever, and wore a stupid look. In the foulest weather, despite hard
frosts or drenching rain, the old woman now followed funerals in order
to speculate on the pity of the charitable. She well knew that amongst
the gravestones the fear of death makes people generous; and so she
prowled from tomb to tomb, approaching the kneeling mourners at the
moment they burst into tears, for she understood that they were then
powerless to refuse her. She had entered with the last funeral train,
and a moment previously had espied Helene. But she had not recognized
her benefactress, and with gasps and sobs began to relate how she had
two children at home who were dying of hunger. Helene listened to her,
struck dumb by this apparition. The children were without fire to warm
them; the elder was going off in a decline. But all at once Mother
Fetu's words came to an end. Her brain was evidently working beneath
the myriad wrinkles of her face, and her little eyes began to blink.
Good gracious! it was her benefactress! Heaven, then, had hearkened to
her prayers! And without seeking to explain the story about the