“You must stop the nursing, and keep the woman here as a dry nurse, in order that she may not go away to carry the disease elsewhere. Do not exaggerate to yourself the danger which will result to the child. I am, in truth, extremely moved by your suffering, and I will do everything--I swear it to you--that your baby may recover as quickly as possible its perfect health. I hope to succeed, and that soon. And now I must leave you until tomorrow.” “Thank you, Doctor, thank you,” said Madame Dupont, faintly. The young man rose and accompanied the doctor to the door. He could not bring himself to speak, but stood hanging his head until the other was gone. Then he came to his mother. He sought to embrace her, but she repelled him--without violence, but firmly. Her son stepped back and put his hands over his face. “Forgive me!” he said, in a broken voice. “Are we not unhappy enough, without hating each other?” His mother answered: “God has punished you for your debauch by striking at your child.” But, grief-stricken as the young man was, he could not believe that. “Impossible!” he said. “There is not even a man sufficiently wicked or unjust to commit the act which you attribute to your God!” “Yes,” said his mother, sadly, “you believe in nothing.” “I believe in no such God as that,” he answered. A silence followed. When it was broken, it was by the entrance of the nurse. She had opened the door of the room and had been standing there for some moments, unheeded. Finally she stepped forward. “Madame,” she said, “I have thought it over; I would rather go back to my home at once, and have only the five hundred francs.” Madame Dupont stared at her in consternation. “What is that you are saying? You want to return to your home?” “Yes, ma’am,” was the answer. “But,” cried George, “only ten minutes ago you were not thinking of it.” “What has happened since then?” demanded Madame Dupont. “I have thought it over.” “Thought it over?” “Well, I am getting lonesome for my little one and for my husband.” “In the last ten minutes?” exclaimed George. “There must be something else,” his mother added. “Evidently there must be something else.” “No!” insisted the nurse. “But I say yes!” “Well, I’m afraid the air of Paris might not be good for me.” “You had better wait and try it.” “I would rather go back at once to my home.” “Come, now,” cried Madame Dupont, “tell us why?” “I have told you. I have thought it over.” “Thought what over?” “Well, I have thought.” “Oh,” cried the mother, “what a stupid reply! ‘I have thought it over! I have thought it over!’ Thought WHAT over, I want to know!” “Well, everything.” “Don’t you know how to tell us what?” “I tell you, everything.” “Why,” exclaimed Madame Dupont, “you are an imbecile!” George stepped between his mother and the nurse. “Let me talk to her,” he said. The woman came back to her old formula: “I know that we’re only poor country people.”