For now she could understand more fully what a great, noble heart was this man's. She could understand why a soft light came into Sister Gabrielle's eyes when she spoke of him--the sort of reverence with which the attendants in the wards obeyed his bidding. It seemed to her as if he, single-handed, did more to keep them all at work in the most efficient manner, than the other members of the staff put together. It seemed to her as if a great deal of the bravery and the cheerfulness which distinguished the workers grew in some fashion out of this bravery and cheerfulness which never failed. Always at his post, ready with keen promptitude to decide the crowd of doubtful questions brought for his opinions, accepting responsibilities from which others shrunk,--"My friend, the Minister of Health is in Paris, and I am here," Therese heard, him say one day, in answer to a timid objection from little M. Pinot,--quick to note the first symptom of over-fatigue among the band of nurses; encouraging Sister Annette's merry little sayings; swift, patient, tender, inflexible, all at once. It was here that she first realised Max Deshoulieres' kingdom. Fanchon was well again. M. Deshoulieres found means to let her know that. Nannon told her that the fever had not spread in the upper town; there were only a few isolated cases. Madame Roulleau had said that when there had been a little rain to cool the air, M. Roulleau would return. "Otherwise I think she will fetch him," said Nannon, laughing; "and, _dame_, I believe the fever would be less terrible to him than madame with her claws out." "But will it ever rain again!" answered Therese, who was walking by a cornfield in the early morning. All the nurses were compelled to be in the open air for half air hour daily, and she had been on night duty lately. People asked that question a hundred times in the day. The sky, with its bright sunny beauty, had grown quite terrible and fierce in their eyes. Water was becoming scarce, the air was so heated that the nights scarcely cooled it at all; while all this continued it was scarcely possible that the fever should subside. One day there was great sorrow in the hospital. Kind little Sister Annette, whom every one loved, became dull, lost her appetite, and complained of headache. Within an hour, M. Deshoulieres had taken her himself to the convent, and a rumour got about that it was a bad case. They missed her terribly. Her kindly, hopeful chatter had done more than any of them knew to keep their spirits from sinking. Somehow it was difficult to imagine her to be ill. Therese said so to Sister Gabrielle one day in their little room, which two other sisters shared with them now; and then Sister Gabrielle took her in her arms, and kissed her, and said, with a spasm of pain working her beautiful face, "She is not ill any longer, our dear sister; she is at rest."