"Isn't the poor little thing any better?" asked Pierre, whose heart ached
at the sight.

"No, Monsieur l'Abbe; no, I think not."

"But you are very badly off here on this bench. You should have made an
application to the pilgrimage managers instead of remaining like this, in
the street, as it were. Some accommodation would have been found for your
little girl, at any rate; that's certain."

"Oh! what would have been the use of it, Monsieur l'Abbe? She is all
right on my lap. And besides, should I have been allowed to stay with
her? No, no, I prefer to have her on my knees; it seems to me that it
will end by curing her." Two big tears rolled down the poor woman's
motionless cheeks, and in her stifled voice she continued: "I am not
penniless. I had thirty sous when I left Paris, and I still have ten
left. All I need is a little bread, and she, poor darling, can no longer
drink any milk even. I have enough to last me till we go back, and if she
gets well again, oh! we shall be rich, rich, rich!"

She had leant forward while speaking, and by the flickering light of a
lantern near by, gazed at Rose, who was breathing faintly, with parted
lips. "You see how soundly she is sleeping," resumed the unhappy mother.
"Surely the Blessed Virgin will take pity on her and cure her, won't she,
Monsieur l'Abbe? We only have one day left; still, I don't despair; and I
shall again pray all night long without moving from here. She will be
cured to-morrow; we must live till then."

Infinite pity was filling the heart of Pierre, who, fearing that he also