morning, all the other lady-hospitallers having gone to their devotions
or their private affairs. However, from the end of the large deserted
ward, where, amidst the warm quiver of the sunlight such sweet
tranquillity prevailed, there still came at intervals the light laughter
of the unseen child.

"Can it be Sophie who is making such a noise?" suddenly asked the
lady-superintendent, whose nerves were somewhat upset by all the worry of
the death which she foresaw. Then quickly walking to the end of the ward,
she found that it was indeed Sophie Couteau--the young girl so
miraculously healed the previous year--who, seated on the floor behind a
bed, had been amusing herself, despite her fourteen years, in making a
doll out of a few rags. She was now talking to it, so happy, so absorbed
in her play, that she laughed quite heartily. "Hold yourself up,
mademoiselle," said she. "Dance the polka, that I may see how you can do
it! One! two! dance, turn, kiss the one you like best!"

Madame de Jonquiere, however, was now coming up. "Little girl," she said,
"we have one of our patients here in great pain, and not expected to
recover. You must not laugh so loud."

"Ah! madame, I didn't know," replied Sophie, rising up, and becoming
quite serious, although still holding the doll in her hand. "Is she going
to die, madame?"

"I fear so, my poor child."

Thereupon Sophie became quite silent. She followed the superintendent,
and seated herself on an adjoining bed; whence, without the slightest
sign of fear, but with her large eyes burning with curiosity, she began