ild and violent, he had the most
detestable disposition. Nevertheless, he could not be left to starve. He
came to Abbe Rose's every Saturday, it seemed, and received a franc,
which sufficed him for the whole week. Then, too, there was a bedridden
old woman in a hovel in the Rue du Mont-Cenis. The baker, who every
morning took her the bread she needed, must be paid. And in particular
there was a poor young woman residing on the Place du Tertre, one who was
unmarried but a mother. She was dying of consumption, unable to work, and
tortured by the idea that when she should have gone, her daughter must
sink to the pavement like herself. And in this instance the legacy was
twofold: there was the mother to relieve until her death, which was near
at hand, and then the daughter to provide for until she could be placed
in some good household.

"You must forgive me, my dear child, for leaving you all these worries,"
added Abbe Rose. "I tried to get the good Sister, who is nursing me, to
take an interest in these poor people, but when I spoke to her of the big
Old'un, she was so alarmed that she made the sign of the cross. And it's
the same with my worthy friend Abbe Tavernier. I know nobody of more
upright mind. Still I shouldn't be at ease with him, he has ideas of his
own.... And so, my dear child, there is only you whom I can rely upon,
and you must accept my legacy if you wish me to depart in peace."

Pierre was weeping. "Ah! certainly, with my whole soul," he answered. "I
shall regard your desires as sacred."

"Good! I knew you would accept.... So it is agreed: a franc for the
big Old'un every Saturday, the bread for the bedridden woman, some help
for the poor young mother, and then a home for her little girl. Ah! if
you only knew what a weight it is off my heart! The end may come now, it
will be welcome to me."

His kind white face had brightened as if with supreme joy. Holding
Pierre's hand within his own he detained him beside the bed, exchanging a
farewell full of serene affection. And his voice weakening, he expressed
his whole mind in faint, impressive accents: "Yes, I shall be pleased to
go off. I could do no more, I could do no more! Though I gave and gave, I
felt that it was ever necessary to give more and more. And how sad to
find charity powerless, to give without hope of ever being able to stamp
out want and suffering! I rebelled against that idea of yours, as you
will remember. I told you that we should always