Therese nearly broke down herself after this. Probably she would have done so altogether if it had not been for M. Deshoulieres and Sister Gabrielle, who watched her wisely and tenderly, and sent her more into the cornfields with Nannon. The days came and went, she scarcely knew how time passed, or that it was nearly five weeks since first she came to the hospital. It seemed, at last, as if the fever was stationary-- the number of cases neither diminished nor increased. But the sky was as fierce as ever. One afternoon it changed. A greyness gathered over it, not big satisfactory clouds, but still something of the nature of cloud. A few scattered drops fell, enough to make large round holes in the white dust, and then it all cleared away, and the stars came out, and on the next morning the sun was braving it as undauntedly as he had done for those weary weeks past, and the Charville world was gasping and panting, and trying to make merry, with the thermometer at 90 degrees in the shade, with pestilence upon them, and drought at their very doors. Madame Roulleau, who had said that Ignace should not return until there had been rain, was frantic at the delay. There were cases of sunstroke among the reapers, a few old feeble people died literally of exhaustion from the stifling heat. Monseigneur at the Eveche had been at death's door, and had driven them all distracted by refusing to allow M. Deshoulieres to be called away from his other work, until he became so weak that his will had no longer any power of influencing them, and M. l'Abbe took matters into his own hands. But, indeed, those evil days brought out rare instances of devotion. There came, at last, one day and night which exceeded every day and night that had gone before. Each door and window in the hospital was open, but it seemed as if all the air had gone out of the world. One or two of the patients who were thought to be doing well failed again, and sank rapidly on that terrible night. Great revolving fans had been placed in the wards, and were kept in motion continually, but nothing seemed to break the oppression; the very nurses lost heart under it. "Is it the end of the world?" one said, wearily. Therese, who had kept up bravely, when morning came was so spent and languid, that she could hardly drag herself across the ward. She flung herself across her little bed, too exhausted to speak to the sister, who shared her turn of rest, and fell into a dead, heavy sleep; when she awoke Sister Sara was standing at the window. "It has rained!" she cried out, joyfully, hearing Therese stir. Therese had not heard the thunder or the heavy drops, but all the air was cool, moist, and exquisitely delicious. Pools of water lay on the leads, the sun just gleamed out from between dark clouds, and birds chirped exultantly. "Now we can breathe again, the saints be praised!" said the sister, with her little commonplace face made beautiful by thankfulness.