Christmas morning had been so beautiful with flowers from the hot-houses
of the _château_. It was for the church, indeed, that the conservatories
were chiefly kept up. Mademoiselle de Rochemont would scarcely have
permitted herself such luxuries.

But there would not be flowers this year, the _château_ was closed; there
were no longer gardeners at work, the church would be bare and cold, the
people would have no gifts, there would be no pleasure in the little
peasants' faces. Little Saint Elizabeth wrung her slight hands together
in her lap.

"Oh," she cried, "what can I do? And then there is the poor here--so
many. And I do nothing. The Saints will be angry; they will not intercede
for me. I shall be lost!"

It was not alone the poor she had left in her village who were a grief to
her. As she drove through the streets she saw now and then haggard faces;
and when she had questioned a servant who had one day come to her to ask
for charity for a poor child at the door, she had found that in parts of
this great, bright city which she had not seen, there was said to be
cruel want and suffering, as in all great cities.

"And it is so cold now," she thought, "with the snow on the ground."

The lamps in the street were just beginning to be lighted when her Uncle
Bertrand returned. It appeared that he had brought back with him the
gentleman with the kind face. They were to dine together, and Uncle
Bertrand desired that Mademoiselle Elizabeth should join them. Evidently
the journey out of town had been delayed for a day at least. There came
also another message: Monsieur de Rochemont wished Mademoiselle to send