"I believe so," said the old woman, shrugging her shoulders. "Madame fought against it for days, she said it should not be the fever; she was like a mad woman. But now she is frightened. She loves her children, that wild-cat! Ouf, I am out of breath! Such a summer as this does not make one younger." So they went their way, picking their road over the wet stones, and keeping clear of little torrents of water that here and there spouted out wildly from the eaves. The flowers were gratefully drinking in the soft rain; a beautiful rich geranium flamed out against a grey stone background; the terrible oppressive cloud was lightened; there were people moving about again; little children playing; one little mite in a pink frock and a tight black cap, Therese longed to kiss, but she dared not let them approach her. Presently a girl standing at a door smiled and nodded and kissed both hands. It was Fanchon. The apparition gave Therese a little thrill of delight. "It is so odd to think how horribly frightened I was," she said to Nannon, "and now it all seems so natural." She went on with a lightened heart. That little glimpse of Fanchon, and afterwards the ever steadfast loveliness of the Cathedral, did her good. At the door of the Roulleaus' house, Nannon detained her for a moment. "Listen, mademoiselle," she said. "Do you know last night I dreamed that Monsieur Fabien was come!" "And so did I," said Therese, smiling. Madame in her linen camisole was at little Adolphe's bedside copying a letter when Therese went softly into the room. Was she glad to see her? The girl could not tell. She was rigid and defiant, and yet every now and then an expression resembling terror flashed out from her eyes. Adolphe was glad at all events. He knew her directly, and put out his poor little weak arms. "Now you will tell me stories, mademoiselle," he said, with a feeble triumph at having carried his own way. Therese knew well by this time what to do, and she changed the whole aspect of the uncomfortable little room in a few minutes. Every thing was put in order and ready for use. Poor Adolphe did not really want any stories, but, as he grew a little delirious in the evening, he said over and over again, "il y avait un geant, il y avait un geant." Tears came into her eyes as she heard the little thin voice wandering on. Nothing soothed him so much as to have her close to his bedside, singing to him; and madame, who was very silent, sat and watched them with a fierce, jealous sorrow pulling at her heart. She knew little better than a baby what to do in a sick-room, but she loved her children passionately. It cut her to the heart that Adolphe should turn from her to another. It cut more deeply still that this other should be Mademoiselle Veuillot. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. "No tear relieved the burden of her heart; Stunn'd with the heavy woe." _Thalaba_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------