With another prayer, this time uttered shiveringly, for the soul of the pedlar, she nerved herself to get into bed again, and lay there till morning with her child against her heart; gazing with staring, sleepless eyes at the door which divided her from that awful room; keeping surely the most terrible vigil that ever woman kept. At last the morning dawned, clear and bright. A frost had set in, and the roads were clean and hard, the sky was blue. If it had not been for that ghastly stain that had crept across the far end of her room, she might almost have thought that the events of the night had been but a fearful dream. Her child awoke, fresh and smiling, and she could hear them stirring in the living room below. She felt that now, indeed, the hardest part of her task was still before her. On a little table by the side of her bed there was a small, cracked looking-glass. When she was dressed she looked into it and saw that it reflected a face death-like in its pallor, with burning lips and feverish eyes. She took the bottle from her pocket again and gulped down the rest of its contents. It sent a flush into her cheeks and steadied the sick trembling that was shaking her through and through. Without stopping to think or look round again, she took up her boy and descended the stairs, and entered the room where they had supped on the previous night. The old woman was its sole occupant now. She was bending over the fire frying something for breakfast, and the table in the centre of the room was prepared for the meal. She looked if possible more untidy and slovenly than when Babette had last seen her, and greeted the girl with a feeble smile. Then she poured her out a cup of coffee, and Babette had sat down and begun to sip it (for she knew she must make a pretence of breakfasting) when the eldest son came in. There was a very uneasy look upon his evil-looking face. "How are you?" he asked, sullenly, as he sat down opposite her. "I hope, rested. Did you sleep well?" Never afterwards did she know how she found courage to answer him as she did, quietly and firmly:-- "Yes, very well, thank you. But my friend--he must have over-slept himself--why is he not down?" The old woman dropped a plate with a clatter and turned round. The man looked Babette straight in the face as he replied, and she met his glance with one just as steady. "The pedlar is gone," he said, as he sugared his coffee carefully. "He paid his bill and was off before seven. You will probably see him in Brussels, for he was going there."