and every day."

"Every day!" repeated La Louve, with her head drooping on her chest, her
look fixed, her breast oppressed, "for it is true the good God is good
to give us wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so
little."

"Well, tell me now," continued Fleur-de-Marie, gently,--"tell me, ought
not he to be blessed, after God, who should give you this peaceable and
laborious life, instead of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of
the streets of Paris?"

This word Paris suddenly recalled La Louve to reality.

A strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind of this creature.

The simple painting of a humble and rude condition--the mere recital by
turns--lighted up by the soft rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by
some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or
perfumed by the odour of wild flowers,--this narrative had made on La
Louve a more profound or more sensible impression than could an
exhortation of the most pious morality have effected.

In truth, in proportion as Fleur-de-Marie spoke, La Louve had longed to
be, and meant to be, an indefatigable manager, a worthy wife, an
affectionate and devoted mother.

To inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, and degraded woman
with a love of home, respect for duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude
towards her Creator; and that, by only promising her what God gives to
all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the forest,--what society owes
to those who lack a roof and a loaf,--was, indeed, a glorious triumph
for Fleur-de-Marie! Could the most severe moralist--the most
overpowering preacher--have obtained more in threatening, in their
monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances--all divine
thunders?

The painful anger with which La Louve was possessed when she returned to
the reality, after having allowed herself to be charmed by the new and
wholesome reverie in which, for the first time, Fleur-de-Marie had
plunged her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate
companion. The more bitter were La Louve's regrets when she fell back
from this consoling delusion to the horrors of her real position, the
greater was La Goualeuse's triumph. After a moment's silence and
reflection, La Louve raised her head suddenly, passed her hand over her
brow, and rose threatening and angry.

"See, see! I had reason to mistrust you, and to desire not to listen to
you, because it would turn to ill for me! Why did