Madame recognised her false step, and did her best to retrieve it. She calmed, not suddenly, but by degrees, and tried to draw out the girl's sympathy for her position, with so many business matters on her hands. There was the risk that Therese might catch the fever and die, but she did not dread the fever herself sufficiently to fear that inconvenience greatly. At all events Therese meant to go, and therefore it only remained for her to put matters in the best train for herself. The girl, who was sweet-tempered, came round before long. Madame threw herself into her idea at last with enthusiasm. But Therese shook her head when she asked her plans. "I am going at once, and I do not think I shall come back again," was all she would say. Then she went upstairs, put what things she wanted quietly and expeditiously into a bundle, and left the house. "M. Deshoulieres may not allow it," madame had objected, and Therese, who thought the same, was bringing some feminine tact to bear upon that probability. She was passing the Cathedral, but suddenly turned and went in. There was a little dark corner in a side aisle, which only caught a few rays of light through the nearest window, gorgeous with painted glass in glowing prodigality of colour. She drew her chair there and knelt down. Presently, far away in the choir, half-a-dozen priests began reciting their office with deep, rich voices. Therese fancied it was like the distant roll of the sea. There was not much music in it, but it was full and solemn-sounding; she stopped her prayer and listened. And then her heart went up in a cry, "O my God, make this work I desire a psalm of Thine." She went out of the Cathedral, crossed the Place, and turned down the street from which she had fled only the day before. There was the same strange oppressive stillness about it, but her steps only faltered for a moment. Then she went on bravely, except that she drew her breath a little quicker. She reached the house from which the children had looked out at her, her heart sank a little when she saw they were not there; she had somehow trusted to them as friends. A woman came to a narrow quaint window opposite and stared indifferently at her. Therese went slowly up the steps, hot from the burning sun, and softly opened a door. If it was hot outside, what was this room like? It was all she could do in her first horror to keep her ground, and not to run away as once before. She stood still, however, and a woman, who was sitting by a low miserable bed, glanced languidly at this strange young figure who was standing there with the old street behind her, and the glow of the sunshine round her head. In another minute or two Therese recovered herself and came forward timidly. "Can I do any thing for you?" she asked in a low voice full of awe. "No." It was not repulse, but simply despair.