her big dark eyes were full of sunshine, and her lips were beautiful and
fresh. She fastened on her muslin cap, and then the graceful hands
fluttered about her dress arranging that also.

Suddenly a deep sigh, apparently from the next room, reached her ear.
She ran to the communicating door, and, opening it cautiously, looked
in.

"Poor woman!" she said to herself, "she is awake. I wonder if she
suffers still."

Then a voice called, "Cinette! little Cinette!"

"How strange!" said the girl, "when I hear her speak that name, it seems
to me the voice is familiar."

"Come, Cinette!"

This time the girl entered the room. She beheld a woman vainly seeking
to raise herself in her bed.

Her face was hideously scarred and seared, while the bloodshot eyes
could not endure the light. It was clear that the poor creature had been
the victim of a horrible accident.

"I am thirsty," she faintly articulated.

"Yes, mamma," answered the girl who was called Cinette.

And the woman smiled. She was mad in addition to her helplessness. No
one knew who she was, nor whence she came.

The reader has recognized in the girl who ministered to her needs,
little Cinette, the child of Simon Fougere and Francoise. She had run
distractedly through those subterranean vaults when she lost Jacques,
and finally escaped from the labyrinth to fall into the hands of those
people whom Hugo has immortalized.

These people--a husband, wife and children--were pillaging the dead on a
battle-field, but when Cinette appeared they smiled upon her.

The little girl could give no explanation as to why she was thus alone
and deserted. To all questions she could only reply by the words "papa
Simon," and "mamma Francoise." Of course this was too indefinite for
these people to act upon; besides, at that time they had much to do--the
invasion promised them much spoil. They took Cinette away, and after the
peace they continued to keep her. They had amassed quite a little
property, and bought a farm in Blaisois. Cinette was happy in these
days, for she was too young to remember her woes.

In the village there was an old soldier whose violin and songs had often
enlivened the bivouac. He soon discovered that Cinette, for she still
went by that name, possessed a wonderful voice. He took it into his head
to start a musical school; he had three pupils, only two of which paid a
sou; on the third, Cinette, he built many projects. He was making
arrangements to tran