In the Passage des Eaux an additional sorrow came upon her. Halfway up, on the right-hand side of the path, the wall was hollowed out, and here there was an excavation, some disused well, enclosed by a railing. During the last two days when passing she had heard the wailings of a cat rising from this well, and now, as she slowly climbed the path, these wailings were renewed, but so pitifully that they seemed instinct with the agony of death. The thought that the poor brute, thrown into the disused well, was slowly dying there of hunger, quite rent Hélène’s heart. She hastened her steps, resolving that she would not venture down this lane again for a long time, lest the cat’s death-call should reach her ears. The day was a Tuesday. In the evening, on the stroke of seven, as Hélène was finishing a tiny bodice, the two wonted rings at the bell were heard, and Rosalie opened the door. “His reverence is first to-night!” she exclaimed. “Oh, here comes Monsieur Rambaud too!” They were very merry at dinner. Jeanne was nearly well again now, and the two brothers, who spoiled her, were successful in procuring her permission to eat some salad, of which she was excessively fond, notwithstanding Doctor Bodin’s formal prohibition. When she was going to bed, the child in high spirits hung round her mother’s neck and pleaded: “Oh! mamma, darling! let me go with you to-morrow to see the old woman you nurse!” But the Abbé and Monsieur Rambaud were the first to scold her for thinking of such a thing. They would not hear of her going amongst the poor, as the sight affected her too grieviously. The last time she had been on such an expedition she had twice swooned, and for three days her eyes had been swollen with tears, that had flowed even in her sleep. “Oh! I will be good!” she pleaded. “I won’t cry, I promise.” “It is quite useless, my darling,” said her mother, caressing her. “The old woman is well now. I shall not go out any more; I’ll stay all day with you!” CHAPTER IV. During the following week Madame Deberle paid a return visit to Madame Grandjean, and displayed an affability that bordered on affection. “You know what you promised me,” she said, on the threshold, as she was going off. “The first fine day we have, you must come down to the garden, and bring Jeanne with you. It is the doctor’s strict injunction.” “Very well,” Hélène answered, with a smile, “it is understood; we will avail ourselves of your kindness.” Three days later, on a bright February afternoon, she accompanied her daughter down to the garden. The porter opened the door connecting the two houses. At the near end of the garden, in a kind of greenhouse built somewhat in the style of a Japanese pavilion, they found Madame Deberle and her sister Pauline, both idling away their time, for some embroidery, thrown on the little table, lay there neglected.