"I think I could help you a little," Therese said gently. "Once my aunt had a fever, and I used to nurse her. And you seem so ill yourself." This time there was no answer. The woman, who had her arm on the pillow of the bed, on which lay a girl, a little younger than Therese, neither moved nor objected, but watched mechanically while Therese drew off the quilt from the bed, fastened open the window, and moistened the lips of the sufferer, who was unconscious of her presence. Afterwards the woman said she had believed it was the Blessed Virgin, or one of the saints, who came in so strangely; but even this conviction did not astonish her. She sat there, and watched dully until the sick girl started up, and poured out a wild torrent of delirious words. They were obliged to hold and soothe her while it lasted; but when it was over she sank down in utter exhaustion. "Is there medicine to give her?" asked Therese. The woman nodded, and pointed to a bottle, on which the directions were clearly written. Therese poured out the quantity and gave it to her. "See there," she said cheerfully; "she is tranquil now. Is she your daughter?" "My daughter," answered the woman in a low hoarse voice. "As you know, her father is dead, and they have just carried him away. I have had it, too, and she nursed me." Therese, wondering over the phrase "as you know," asked where were the children. "M. Pinot has taken them." "Is M. Pinot coming again?" "He or the other. I do not know," said the woman wearily. She would not speak again, but she did not interfere with any of Therese's movements. The girl found wine in a bottle, and made her drink a little, after she had poured some between poor Fanchon's lips; the same girl who had chattered so merrily at the fountain the year before. Then she heated some soup for the poor mother, and made the room look a little less deplorable than it had done when she entered it. Her fear had left her utterly--a great pity had swallowed it. But her heart beat fast, when as evening was coming on she heard a step at the door. It was M. Deshoulieres. Therese saw that with a glad throb, but she was standing a little behind the door in the shadow, and he came in quickly, and passed to the bed without noticing that a third person was in the room. Neither did he speak for a few moments, but at last turned to the poor mother and said,-- "This is good. She is a little better. Have you given her the medicine?" The woman pointed behind him and said,-- "She has," and M. Deshoulieres turned round and saw Therese. She trembled violently, fearing lest after all she had done wrong, and then she looked in his face and saw a sudden agony in it, and recovered herself at once. He crossed the room and stood before her in the dim corner, at first speechless. When he did at last speak, his voice was so changed, so rough and broken, that she hardly recognised it. "Child, child!" he said, "what madness have you done?"