A thought came to my mind--the nearness of New Caledonia to Australia,
and New Caledonia was a French colony--a French penal colony! I smiled
as I said the word penal to myself. Of course the word could have no
connection with a girl like her, but still she might have lived in the
colony. So I added quietly: "You perhaps had come from New Caledonia?"

Her look was candid, if sorrowful. "Yes, from New Caledonia."

Was she, thought I, the good wife of some convict--some political
prisoner?--the relative of some refugee of misfortune? Whatever she was,
I was sure that she was free from any fault. She evidently thought that
I might suspect something uncomplimentary of her, for she said: "My
brother was an officer at Noumea. He is dead. I am going to France,
when I can."

I tried to speak gently to her. I saw that her present position must
be a trial. I advised her to take more rest, or she would break down
altogether, for she was weak and nervous; I hinted that she might have
to give up entirely, if she continued to tax herself heedlessly; and,
finally, that I would speak to Mrs. Falchion about her. I was scarcely
prepared for her action then. Tears came to her eyes, and she said to
me, her hand involuntarily clasping my arm: "Oh no, no! I ask you not to
speak to madame. I will sleep--I will rest. Indeed, I will. This
service is so much to me. She is most generous. It is because I am so
altogether hers, night and day, that she pays me well. And the money is
so much. It is my honour--my dead brother's honour. You are kind at
heart; you will make me strong with medicine, and I will ask God to bless
you. I could not suffer such poverty again. And then, it is my honour!"