the raindrops dripped fast into the passage, and the lamp glimmered like that of some miner, hanging to the side of a pit which infiltrations have rendered dangerous. Hélène climbed straight to the attic she had so often visited at the top of the large house abutting on the Passage. But nothing stirred, although she rapped loudly. In considerable perplexity she descended the stairs again. Mother Fétu was doubtless in the rooms on the first floor, where, however, Hélène dared not show herself. She remained five minutes in the entry, which was lighted by a petroleum lamp. Then again she ascended the stairs hesitatingly, gazing at each door, and was on the point of going away, when the old woman leaned over the balusters. “What! it’s you on the stairs, my good lady!” she exclaimed. “Come in, and don’t catch cold out there. Oh! it is a vile place—enough to kill one.” “No, thank you,” said Hélène; “I’ve brought you your pair of shoes, Mother Fétu.” She looked at the door which Mother Fétu had left open behind her, and caught a glimpse of a stove within. “I’m all alone, I assure you,” declared the old woman. “Come in. This is the kitchen here. Oh! you’re not proud with us poor folks; we can talk to you!” Despite the repugnance which shame at the purpose of her coming created within her, Hélène followed her. “God in Heaven! how can I thank you! Oh, what lovely shoes! Wait, and I’ll put them on. There’s my whole foot in; it fits me like a glove. Bless the day! I can walk with these without being afraid of the rain. Oh! my good lady, you are my preserver; you’ve given me ten more years of life. No, no, it’s no flattery; it’s what I think, as true as there’s a lamp shining on us. No, no, I don’t flatter!” She melted into tears as she spoke, and grasping Hélène’s hands kissed them. In a stewpan on the stove some wine was being heated, and on the table, near the lamp, stood a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux with its tapering neck. The only other things placed there were four dishes, a glass, two saucepans, and an earthenware pot. It could be seen that Mother Fétu camped in this bachelor’s kitchen, and that the fires were lit for herself only. Seeing Hélène’s glance turn towards the stewpan, she coughed, and once more put on her dolorous expression. “It’s gripping me again,” she groaned. “Oh! it’s useless for the doctor to talk; I must have some creature in my inside. And then, a drop of wine relieves me so. I’m greatly afflicted, my good lady. I wouldn’t have a soul suffer from my trouble; it’s too dreadful. Well, I’m nursing myself a bit now; and when a person has passed through so much, isn’t it fair she should do so? I have been so lucky in falling in with a nice gentleman. May Heaven bless him!”