Mère Lunde stole in to look at her patient and shook her head, threw some more ears of corn in the kettle and answered the calls that came in a joyous mood and left in sorrow. For people were very sympathetic in those days, and cares were shared in true neighborly fashion. Presently there was a little moisture about the edge of Renée’s hair, but the watcher did not like the dull purple of her cheeks nor the labored breathing. There might be a poultice for the throat; yes, she would make that. And if the good Father came and made a prayer! But that seemed as if one must be very ill indeed. Gaspard had no mind for pleasure. He went in and stood by the child, who most of the time lay in a heavy sort of sleep. How strange she looked with her red, swollen face, quite unlike herself! Yes, he would go for Dr. Montcrevier, though he had not much faith in him, for he seemed to think more of strange bugs and birds and fishes than human beings. However, his search was fruitless, perhaps it was as well. “The fever is abating,” was Mère Lunde’s greeting in a joyous tone. “Great drops have come out on her forehead. Ah, I think we shall conquer with the good corn. And she has been awake.” There was less pressure for breath, though the rattle in the throat was not a pleasant sound. But by mid-afternoon she was in a drench of perspiration, and then Mère Lunde rubbed her dry and rolled her in a fresh blanket. “What is the matter? I feel so queer,” exclaimed the tremulous voice. “You are ill, poor little child,” in a tender tone. “Is it morning? The night was so long. It seemed as if the house was burning up.” “It was the bad fever. Oh, yes, it is day, almost another night. Oh, little one, the good God be praised!” Mère Lunde dropped down on her knees and repeated a short prayer. Renée raised her head. “Oh, it still feels queer. And I am so tired.” She dropped off to sleep again. Mère Lunde had two potions, one for the fever, one for her general strength, but she would not disturb her now. Sleep was generally a good medicine. “She has spoken. She is better,” was the mère’s greeting as Denys entered. “But she is asleep now. Do not disturb her.” Yes, the dreadful purple was going out of her face. He took the limp little hand. It was cooler, though the pulse still beat hard and high. Ah, how much one could come to love and hardly know it until the threat of losing appeared. And he thought of her mother. He could never get it out of his mind but that she had died in cruel neglect, alone and heartbroken. He pressed the slim fingers to his lips, he studied the brow with its soft, light rings of hair, the almost transparent eyelids and long lashes, the dainty nose that had a piquant ending not quite _retroussé_ but suggestive of it, and the small mouth, the lips wide in the middle that gave it a roundness often seen in childhood. She would be a pretty young girl, though it was her soft yet deep and wondering eyes that made her resemble her mother.