More than once, the snow, falling in great flakes, formed an icy cloak about her body, so that the poor girl's form could hardly be distinguished from the ground she lay upon; and often she removed her cloak to cover her shivering companions. The traveller who happened to pass over the hill could make out nothing in that snow-covered group save the dumb girl's head, always turned toward the road to the town. But, unheeding the cold, she did not realize that her whole body shivered, that her teeth chattered, that her limbs stiffened; she was unconscious of physical suffering; a single sentiment absorbed her whole being, and the pain it caused left her no feeling for any other. When the darkness made it impossible for her to see the road, she rose and looked at herself, amazed to find that she was almost buried in snow. Then she would shake her cloak, caress her goats, and slowly descend the hill to the cabin and old Marguerite. When the old woman was asleep, and she threw herself on her solitary couch, she no longer found love there, nor even rest, to which she had long been a stranger. The memory of her lover was there, as it was everywhere. If only she could express her grief in words, call to him and implore him to return! It seemed to her that her voice would reach his ears.--Poor girl! heaven had deprived you of that priceless organ. Tears! always tears! those were all that remained to you! But, meanwhile, Sister Anne saw that old Marguerite was failing from day to day. For a long while she had not left the house; she was hardly able to totter to her great armchair. Marguerite was seventy-six years of age; she had led an active, laborious life, and her old age was placid; she had no disease and did not suffer; age alone was wearing out her strength, which was daily diminishing. She was going out like a lamp whose light has been soft and mellow; she had not shone with great brilliancy, but she had been useful, which is far preferable. The hour fixed by nature drew near; Marguerite was destined not to see another spring. Sister Anne redoubled her loving attentions to her adopted mother; observing the gradual weakening of her faculties, she gave up going to the hilltop, in order to be always with her. She could have made no greater sacrifice. Good Marguerite, touched by her devotion, smiled at her affectionately, and called her her dear child. But one morning, when Sister Anne went as usual to her mother's bed to ask how she had passed the night, Marguerite did not answer, or, as her custom was, hold out her trembling hand. Her eyes were closed, never to open again. Sister Anne was terrified; she seized the old woman's hand--it was cold and inert, and she tried in vain to warm it in her own. She stooped and kissed Marguerite's forehead, but no smile rewarded her.