The child drew a long breath. With her little, twisted hands she stroked the beautiful hair so close to her. "Do you, Thérèse?" A kiss fell on Julie's cheek. "Ce soir, j'ai beaucoup prié la Sainte Vierge pour vous!" she said, in a timid and hurried whisper. Julie made no immediate reply. She rose from her knees, her hand still clasped in that of the crippled girl. "Did you put those pictures on my mantel-piece, Thérèse?" "Yes." "Why?" The child hesitated. "It does one good to look at them--n'est-ce pas?--when one is sad?" "Why do you suppose I am sad?" Thérèse was silent a moment; then she flung her little skeleton arms round Julie, and Julie felt her crying. "Well, I won't be sad any more," said Julie, comforting her. "When we're all in Bruges together, you'll see." And smiling at the child, she tucked her into her white bed and left her. Then from this exquisite and innocent affection she passed back into the tumult of her own thoughts and plans. Through the restless night her parents were often in her mind. She was the child of revolt, and as she thought of the meeting before her she seemed to be but entering upon a heritage inevitable from the beginning. A sense of enfranchisement, of passionate enlargement, upheld her, as of a life coming to its fruit. * * * * * "Creil!" A flashing vision of a station and its lights, and the Paris train rushed on through cold showers of sleet and driving wind, a return of winter in the heart of spring. On they sped through the half-hour which still divided them from the Gare du Nord. Julie, in her thick veil, sat motionless in her corner. She was not conscious of any particular agitation. Her mind was strained not to forget any of Warkworth's directions. She was to drive across immediately to the Gare de Sceaux, in the Place Denfert-Rochereau, where he would meet her. They were to dine at an obscure inn near the station, and go down by the last train to the little town in the wooded valley of the Bièvre, where they were to stay. She had her luggage with her in the carriage. There would be no custom-house delays. Ah, the lights of Paris beginning! She peered into the rain, conscious of a sort of home-coming joy. She loved the French world and the French sights and sounds--these tall, dingy houses of the _banlieue_, the dregs of a great architecture; the advertisements; the look of the streets. The train slackened into the Nord Station. The blue-frocked porters crowded into the carriages. "C'est tout, madame? Vous n'avez pas de grands bagages?" "No, nothing. Find me a cab at once." There was a great crowd outside. She hurried on as quickly as she could, revolving what was to be said if any acquaintance were to accost her. By great good luck, and by travelling second class both in the train and on the boat, she had avoided meeting anybody she knew. But the Nord Station was crowded with English people, and she pushed her way through in a nervous terror.