Clémence looked up from the embroidery upon which she was engaged. Two years of sorrow had changed the young girl into a grave and quiet woman; but there was even a rarer beauty than of old in her pale and sculptured face. “There must be many wounded,” she remarked with an air of sadness. “Every one says the fight was an obstinate one.” “The hospital is full to overflowing. Clémence, they are all of them mothers’ sons, _also_.” In the last word there was an undertone of pain that went straight to the heart of Clémence. “True, dear mother,” she said softly. “I have been thinking,” Madame de Talmont resumed, “that it would do us good to try and comfort some of them, even a little. What should _we_ feel now, if we knew that any one had done it for our beloved?” With Clémence a call to action always found a ready response. “What can we do, mother?” she asked with even a touch of eagerness. “To some of the sick men fruit may be welcome; to others, a little money to buy the trifling luxuries they may long for; to all, kind words will not be valueless.” “But, mother, they are Germans and Russians. They will not understand us.” “Some of them will. At all events, we can try.” An hour afterwards, two ladies dressed in deep mourning and closely veiled entered the Hospital of Versailles. Each carried a basket filled with grapes and oranges, which they easily obtained permission to distribute amongst the patients. “These are all Russians who are here,” they were told; “the Prussians and Austrians have been provided for in other places.” The sufferers were well cared for, as well at least as circumstances permitted. A liberal allowance was made for their support by their own government; and the Mayor of Versailles interested himself so warmly in their welfare, that the Czar afterwards wrote him an autograph letter of thanks. Madame de Talmont and Clémence passed between long rows of pallets, distributing their little gifts, which were most thankfully received, especially the oranges, of which the Russians were excessively fond. They tried to show their gratitude by looks and signs; and one poor fellow, remembering a word which is the same in most languages and full of blessing in all, brought tears to the sad eyes of Clémence by looking up and murmuring, “Christohs;” as though he would have said, “We are one in Him.” They came at last to the ward where the wounded officers lay. Their little store was long since exhausted; and even had it been otherwise, they would have thought the common soldiers greater objects of compassion. So they passed on rather quickly, and without paying much heed to the pale but interested faces which were raised from many a pillow to gaze at the gentle, sweet-looking ladies, the very sight of whom seemed to do the poor sufferers good.