s a
revelation.

"Oh! yes,--and they sent you--almost at once! Blessed Ste. Genevieve!"

"Why, what was the matter, Fouchette?" inquired Sister Agnes, wiping
her eyes, after gently disengaging the young arms from her neck. She
tried to speak cheerily.

"Take me as you did when I first saw you,--when I was in the
cell,"--and the voice now was that of a pleading child,--"that way;
yes,--kiss me once more."

On the matronly bosom of Sister Agnes the girl told her story,--the
story of her love, of her suffering, of her hopes, of her final
failure, of her despair.

"You see, my more than mother, it was too much----"

"Too much! I should think so!" interrupted the good sister, brusquely,
to prevent a total breakdown. "Sainte Mere de Dieu! such is for the
angels in heaven, mon enfant,--for mortals, never!"

"When I found she was my sister,--that her brother was my
brother,--and that even Jean Marot--I could not be one to spoil this
happiness by making myself known. No, I would rather die. I should
hate myself even if they did not hate me. No, no, no! I could never do
that!"

"Fouchette, you are an angel!"

The religieuse slipped to the floor at the girl's side, and covered
the small hands with kisses. She felt the insignificance of her own
worldly trials.

"I am not worthy to sit in your presence, Fouchette," she faltered.

* * * * *

As they slowly passed out of the church the younger seemed to support
the elder woman. Both bowed for a few moments in silence before the
altar of Ste. Genevieve.

And when they arose, Mlle. Fouchette took from the bosom of her dress
a bit of folded paper and put it in the box of offerings inside the
rail.

It was the bank-note for five hundred francs.

At the door the grim sacristan, long impatient for this departure,
growled his final disapproval of Mlle. Fouchette.

"She's a terror," he said.

"She's a saint, monsieur," was the quiet reply of Sister Agnes.

A few minutes later the great door of the Dames de St. Michel closed
upon the two women. Mlle. Fouchette had ceased to exist, and Mlle.
Louise Remy had entered upon the coveted life of peace and love.

THE END

* * * * *

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