As soon as she was alone on the street, her former thought came again to her, to confess every thing to Germaine. But she felt now it was impossible. Her womanly instinct revolted at the thought of such a confession. There are some things that can never be confided, even to a dearly loved sister. She hurried along, her eyes fixed on the ground, accusing herself of cowardice; that one little sentence from Claude had sufficed to undo the work of months. M. Laviguerie occupied the first floor of one of those large, old-fashioned houses on the quai Voltaire, with high ceilings, comfortable and airy. Germaine had taken possession of two large sunny rooms, one for her bed-room, the other her sitting-room, and was always at home to any one in trouble. Mme. de Rozan had left her a considerable fortune, which she expended in feeding the hungry and clothing the poor, with tender words of sympathy and hope for those in sorrow. Thus was her life spent; almost nun-like in her self-sacrificing devotion to suffering humanity. At seven o'clock, every morning, she attended early service at Saint Germain-des-Prés. She then visited her poor people until lunch time, when she returned home to be with her father, trying to enter into his pursuits and make his life cheerful and happy. At first, M. Laviguerie was somewhat embarrassed in her presence. He did not feel at ease with this daughter that he had condemned to disease and morbid nervousness. Her peaceful life seemed to subvert all his theories. But he felt re-assured of his correct judgment when he saw her devotion to religion and charity. He saw in her many little traits that reminded him of her mother, and when M. Descoutures, one day, with great hesitation, ventured to enquire his present opinion of Germaine, he replied, "I was not mistaken. There are certain unmistakable symptoms. Women of this nature must always have something to which they can devote their time and energies; at present, Germaine thinks of nothing but her religion and her poor people. I do not interfere at all, of course." Germaine was sewing busily on a black dress, for a poor woman whose husband had been killed the day before by some accident, when Odette came to her room. "You are very kind to come and see me so soon, dear Odette; but how feverish you are. Are you sick?" "I am not well, Germaine. I am suffering beyond expression. Do not ask me any questions, I can not answer them; but I come to you for help. I am being carried away by a raging torrent, and I cling to you for safety!" Germaine was dumb with astonishment and consternation, then suddenly she comprehended, and as Odette stopped, she said, "Oh, unhappy soul! You do not love your husband!" "Oh, no, no!" cried Odette, terrified at her sister's keenness. "You are mistaken, I do love him."