She was awakened from a dream of former days by rough hands, and upon regaining her recollection, found that some one had snatched the bundle from beneath her head, and that nothing remained to her but the little image, associated in her mind with that happy childhood to which her present destitute and friendless condition formed so terrible a contrast. The sneers, and in some cases the insults of the passers-by, terrified her to such a degree, that, regardless of consequences, she penetrated further into the Bois de Boulogne, when at length weak, and indeed quite exhausted, from want of food, she sank down, praying to God to let her die, and take her to heaven. She waited patiently for some time, hoping, and more than half expecting, that what she asked so earnestly would be granted to her. About an hour passed, and Marie, wondering in her simple faith that she was still alive, repeated her supplications, uttering them in her distraction in a loud tone of voice. Suddenly she fancied she heard sounds of branches breaking, and the approach of footsteps, and filled with the utmost alarm lest it might be some of those much-dreaded men who had derided and insulted her, she attempted to rise and fly; but her weakness was so great, that after a few steps she fell. "My poor girl," said a kind voice, "are you ill? What do you here, so far from your home and friends?" "I have no home, no friend but God, and I want to go to Him. Oh, my God, let me die! let me die!" "You are too young to die yet: you have many happy days in store, I hope. Come, come; eat something, or you _will_ die." "But eating will make me live, and I want to die, and go to my father and mother." "But that would be to kill yourself, and then you would never see either God or your parents, you know. Come, eat a morsel, and take a mouthful of wine." "But when _you_ go, there is no one to give me any more, so I shall only be longer in dying." "Self-destruction, you ought to know, if you have been properly brought up, is the only sin for which there _can_ be no pardon, for that is the only sin we _can not_ repent." Marie looked timidly up at the manly, sensible, kind face which bent over her, and accepted the food he offered. He was dressed as a workman, and had on his shoulders a hod of glass: in fact, he was an itinerant glazier. His look was compassionate, but his voice, although soft, was authoritative. Refreshed by what she had taken, Marie sat up, and very soon was able to walk. She told her little history, one word of which he never doubted. "But what do you mean to do?" asked the young man. "To stay with you always, for you are kind and good, and no one else is so to me." "But that can not be: it would not be right, you know."