“‘Neither was _she_ when I saw her last, and you are like her in voice and manner, and so many things, and that’s why I cannot hate you. Oh, _Mon Dieu_, that she should die and I live on,’ said Eugenie. ‘Let me tell you about her, the sweetest child that ever drew breath; not high or noble, but lowly born, a country lass, as innocent and happy as the birds which sang by that cottage door, and I loved her, oh, how I loved her from the hour her dying mother, who was not my mother, but my father’s wife, put her in my arms. I am almost thirty-eight. She, if living, would be twenty-three; so you see my arms were young and strong, and they kept her so tenderly and lovingly. How I cared for her and watched over her as she grew into the sweetest rose that ever bloomed in fair Normandy. How I toiled and drudged for her, going without myself that _Petite_ might be fed, that hers might be the dainty food, the pretty peasant’s dress in which she was so lovely. How I meant to educate and bring her up a lady, so that no soil should come to her soft white hands, no tire to her little feet. When she was fifteen I went to Paris, hoping to get money and a home for her. I was a milliner first, then I recited, I sang, I acted and attracted much attention, and kept myself good and pure for her, till there came a chance of earning money faster, and woe is me. I took it. You are _Anglaise_ or _Americaine_, which amounts to the same thing. You do not understand how a woman may think herself respectable and do these things, but I am French, educated differently. Half of my countrywomen have their _grande passion_, their _liaison_, their, what do you call it in English?’ “‘I know, I understand,’ Anna said, feeling an involuntary shrinking from the woman, who went on: “‘I sent her money and such lovely dresses, and meant to leave my own bad life and make a home where she could come and keep herself unspotted; but, alas! the wolf entered the fold, and the news came startlingly, one day, that she had fled from Normandy with an Englishman, who promised her marriage, and she believed him, and left these lines for me: “‘Darling sister, I go for good, not for bad. He will marry me in Paris, and he is so noble and kind; but for a time it must be secret, his relatives are so grand, and will be angry at first.’