"If I have it I shall send for him, and not for that poor little Pinot, whom I recollect when he was a little creature in leading-strings, tumbling about like a helpless bundle. As if he could tell what was good for anybody! But, mademoiselle, I do not understand. If M. Deshoulieres is so excellent as you suppose him, why do you not complain to him of these creatures--these Roulleaus--who insult you with making you slave for them? Perhaps he does not know." "No, he does not know," answered Therese, dreamily. The same thought had come into her own mind. She knew now that she had but to speak, and her life would be lightened of those heavy burdens which had grown so hateful to her. And yet--could she speak? She believed that the sum left by her uncle for her support was, in truth, very inadequate, and she knew nothing of its being even now doubled. Few people might care to receive her; she disliked the idea of being thrown upon M. Deshoulieres' charity. And, after all, it might be so short a time before it ended! With his words ringing in her ears, she fancied Fabien might be at the doors. She would rather bear all until he came. Deliverance by him would be very sweet. With it all there spoke a nobler reason. To take up something of what she had let fall--to redeem months past in idle repining--to live a life that was not ever self-seeking, ever crying out for good things withheld: this was the purpose growing out of that day's events. It was all feeble, imperfect, even in the act of resolution; but it was there. "No; he does not know," she repeated, as they stood at the door of the Roulleaus' house. "I would rather he did not know. I would rather affairs remained as they are. Good-night, Nannon. It was very good of you to mend those holes." "Good-night, mademoiselle." The old woman stood and watched the dark figure run lightly up the stairs; then she turned away, shaking her head. "Something has done all this, something has changed her, and yet her heart has not moved from M. Fabien, for I said it to see. The saints forbid that M. Deshoulieres should want her to marry him, since he will always have his own way, and the poor child would have to yield. Mend holes, did she say? She has a worse hole in the temper of that madame than any thing I can mend for her. Ah, my cap!--my boy, my boy, there, in the gutter! that white thing! What a torment of a wind! Stop it! Ah, my child, you are a treasure; come and let me embrace you." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. "There are always a number of people who have the nature of stones; they fall on other persons and crush them. Some again have the nature of weeds, and twist about other people's feet, and entangle them. More have the nature of logs, and lie in the way, so that every one falls over them. And most of all have the nature of thorns." _Modern Painters_. ------------------------------------------------------------------------