One day, on an unusually oppressive afternoon, about the middle of October, I substituted a white cambric dressing-gown for the heavy mourning robes I still wore, and sat down in my own room for a couple of hours’ quiet reading. I had been thinking of all the disagreeable things of which I have just written, and resolved to try and banish them from my mind. Charlie had brought over several cheap novels with him for the nourishment of his mental appetite, and I had greedily pounced upon one of Miss Braddon’s, and carried it off for my own delectation. I had met Ange dressed for walking as I entered the corridor, on her way to the kitchen to fetch the basket which she usually carried when visiting the poor, and I had remonstrated with the child for exposing herself to such heat, and prophesied all sorts of fevers and horrors for her if she insisted upon being so obstinate. But she had only shaken her head at me in reply, and I had considered my good advice wasted, and made myself very comfortable in the society of Miss Braddon. I had heard light steps traverse the corridor and leave the house by way of the garden, and thought what a little saint of love and charity the child was, and how far behind her I came in all things worthy of praise, when the latch of my door was softly raised (all the doors in St. Pucelle were latched instead of locked), and lo! the face of St. Ange, not pale but feverishly red, like the opened heart of a great crimson rose, was thrust silently into view. ‘Why, Ange! I thought you had left the house ten minutes ago.’ ‘No, it was Tessie. I felt so tired that she took the basket from my hands and went instead of me. How cool you look in here, Hilda! The sun is glaring in on the other side of the house till it is like an oven.’ ‘Come in then, dear, and sit with me. I have got one of the most charming stories that was ever written, here, and if you like I will read aloud to you.’ She almost dragged herself across the room to where I sat. I saw at once that she was not well. ‘What is the matter, darling?’ ‘Nothing in particular, Hilda. Only I have such a headache, and feel so tired.’ ‘Take my chair, Ange; you will catch the breeze from the hill-top as it blows across the courtyard. It is deliciously cool.’ ‘No, I would rather sit here,’ she answered, as she sunk down upon a stool at my feet and rested her head against my knee. I read aloud for a few minutes, but I soon found that even Miss Braddon had not the power to-day to chain Ange’s wandering thoughts, which, it was plain to see from the expression of her dreamy eyes, were far away from the matter in hand. ‘Ange, you are very sad to-day. What makes you so?’ ‘I _am_ a little sad. Jeanne Guillot’s little baby Fanchon is dead, and I nursed her the very day she was born. Such a dear, fat little thing she was, Hilda, and only just two years old. I feel almost as if she had belonged to me.’ ‘What did she die of?’