mother, all the affection of a sister, radiated from her person. During
three weeks, as she had said, she had nursed him like a child, helping
him in and out of bed, and rendering him every necessary attention,
without the slightest embarrassment or repugnance, the holy purity born
of suffering and charity shielding them both the while. They were indeed
far removed from the frailties of life. And when he became convalescent,
what a happy existence began, how joyously they laughed, like two old
friends! She still watched over him, scolding him and gently slapping his
arms when he persisted in keeping them uncovered. He would watch her
standing at the basin, washing him a shirt in order to save him the
trifling expense of employing a laundress. No one ever came up there;
they were quite alone, thousands of miles away from the world, delighted
with this solitude, in which their youth displayed such fraternal gaiety.

"Do you remember, Sister, the morning when I was first able to walk
about?" asked Ferrand. "You helped me to get up, and supported me whilst
I awkwardly stumbled about, no longer knowing how to use my legs. We did
laugh so."

"Yes, yes, you were saved, and I was very pleased."

"And the day when you brought me some cherries--I can see it all again:
myself reclining on my pillows, and you seated at the edge of the bed,
with the cherries lying between us in a large piece of white paper. I
refused to touch them unless you ate some with me. And then we took them
in turn, one at a time, until the paper was emptied; and they were very
nice."

"Yes, yes, very nice. It was the same with the currant syrup: you would
only drink it when I took some also."