Their romantic story was often whispered by country gossips. In infancy foundlings on the church steps of Notre Dame, then brought to this quiet Norman backwater by the Girards and raised as sisters, they had lost both their protectors by death. The same visitation of the dread plague had cost poor little Louise her eyesight. Since the orphaning and especially since the blindness of Louise, Henriette cared for her with a love overwhelming as that of a mother for her helpless baby. She looked forward eagerly to the day when they might leave the kinswoman's where they were staying and go to Paris. A local doctor had imparted a precious ray of hope. "As for me, voila! I can do nothing," he said. "Mais, is it not that there are learned faculties in Paris--men skilled in chirurgery even to the taking off of cataracts and the restoration of sight? Of a truth, yes! En avant, mes enfants! Let Monsieur Martin, your ancient cousin in Paris, have the care of you whilst the chirurgeons exert their skill--presto! if all goes well, the little one shall yet see!" Henriette's heart thumped with joy o'er the cheering prospect. She kissed and fondled Louise and even teased her. Reading or chatting to the blind girl, sewing her frocks or performing a thousand and one kindly services, her sole thought was to distract and enliven the prisoned soul behind the darkened windows. And so a broad smile crossed the lovely sightless features and even the dulled orbs radiated a little as Henriette excitedly told the details of the proposed trip, and teased: "--And, oh, yes--I forgot--when Miss Baby's eyes are quite well, I shall sit down like a lady--and you'll do all the work!" They were quite in a fever of delighted ardor over the preparations for the journey. Elder sister, attending to everything, pronounced it perfect with gay little pats of quaint panniered costumes, fitting of banded sailor hats o'er white coifs, recurling of ringlets, and dainty polishing of slippers. The graceful little figures seemed elfin and fairy-like in the half sleeves and low corsages of tight bodices from which depended enormously full skirts set off by cute pinafores. Round boxes, baskets or bags on either arm and even the rainy-day umbrella, they waited in delicious expectancy the serving man fetching the brass-studded cowhide trunk, to the very last moment when to Henriette's surprise the blind girl pouted and drew back! She groped until her fingers touched a chair, then sat down--kerplump! "I won't go!" announced Louise firmly. "Y-you'll meet somebody or other in Paris--get married--and--and--I'll be left _all alone_!" The little general of the expedition paced hurriedly up and down the floor like a Napoleon at Elba. Shocked surprise at Louise's awful insinuation struggled with panic fear. At last Henriette faced her sister squarely. She came over and knelt beside her chair, raising a small hand to high Heaven.