The woman had just come in from a long, long walk through country roads; her shoes were heavy with clinging mud, and all the edges of her dress were soiled. The girl noticed this, and said, with some anxiety, “Mother, have you been far?” “Yes, Marguerite, very far. Once more I have been to Versailles.” “And for no good?” “For no good! The guard refused me at the gate.” These words were uttered with profound despondency. The poor woman closed her eyes, and leaned her head against the wall of the room as they left her lips, as if about to sleep or die. Marguerite started up and went to her, shivering with mingled pain and nervousness. “Mamma! mamma!” The woman was insensible. She had been walking all day without food, and come home hopeless. This had never happened before; through many a weary year of disappointment and pain that noble form had held its strength, but it gave way now, and a cold whiteness settled upon her. To her child she seemed dead. “Oh! my poor, poor mamma! What can I do?” she cried out, wringing her hands in utter helplessness, for there was not even a cup of water in the room. “Monsieur! Monsieur Jacques!” The frightened girl beat her hands against the partition which divided her room from that of some poor neighbor; and cried out in her despair, “Monsieur Jacques! Monsieur Jacques!” Directly a heavy and most singular man appeared at the door with his coat off, and an iron crucible in his hand. “What is it, Marguerite, my child? What is hurting you!” Marguerite came toward the man, and seized hold of his arms with both hands. “Monsieur Jacques, she is dead. Look, look! the great God has taken her away from me!” The poor girl was too horror-stricken for tears; but her face was so wild and white that the strange man flung his crucible on the floor, spattering the hot lead it held over the threshold, where it gleamed like silver. The next moment found the head of that insensible woman on his bosom, and his face close to hers. He was listening for her breath. The girl stood by, mute as stone, watching him with her wild, blue eyes, that seemed twice their usual size. At last the man spoke, “No, little one, she is not dead. Give me your hand, I will make you sure.” Marguerite reached forth her hand, and Jacques laid it on the wrist he was handling. The well-formed hand fell down from his hold in limp immobility; but Marguerite, after bending her head a little while, cried out joyfully as an infant does when it hears a watch tick, “Oh! my good God! It beats—it beats!” The girl fell down upon her knees, and, covering her face with both hands, kept repeating amid her tears, “It beats—it beats! She is alive!” “Yes, little one, she is alive. Do not cry! Do not cry so!” The girl looked up, radiant in spite of her pallor and her tears.