had enabled me to help you. In the morning,
I went out as usual with my basket, and
found again the shop upon the Boulevard
Montmartre. I asked if some one had not
sold a ring there early on the day before.
The man answered yes. I told him that you
wished to buy it again, and he said you could
have it for eighty franks. So I paid him the
money and brought the ring away. And then
I thought how surprised and delighted you
would be to find it on your finger on awakening:
so I contrived, when your hand was
stretched out upon the coverlet, to put it on
without disturbing you."

My eyes were filled with tears at the
thought of so much simplicity and goodness.
I would have said a hundred things, but I
could not find a word to utter. I wished that
she had been an English woman, that my
emotion might speak, without constraint, its
natural language. She saw me striving to
speak and stopped me.

"You must not talk," she said. " The doctor
cautioned me, above all things, not to let
you talk or be excited; and here I have been
chattering more than an hour, and forgetting
that I ought to go out to market."

So saying, she put on her cape, and taking
her basket, went out and shut the door
noiselessly behind her.

I lay in bed a fortnight; and every day she
sat with me, and chatted. The constant
attendance was no longer necessary, but I
begged her to stay with me by day. As I
grew better the restraint diminished, and all
her natural cheerfulness began to show itself.
Her little rounded figure glided about the
room with all the lightness of a fawn.
Sometimes she sat singing and working, as in her
own room, and then would check herself, and
say that it made my head ache; till I begged
her to go on.

One day I said to her, ' You have never
told me your name.'

"Aimée: and yours ?"

"' William Arnot,' said I, shearing myself of
the final consonant to suit her French ear—
"in French, Guillaume Arnot. It is not so
pretty a one as yours, which makes you always
beloved," said I, playing upon the word.

"Nay, excepting M. Gallart, I do not know
a single being whom I can call my friend."

"And how is this," I asked—" you, who are
so kind and good?"

"' I never knew my mother,' she replied.
' My father was a vinegrower in a little village
in Lorraine; and M. Gallart was the curé
there at the time. I had a sister, who was
very beautiful; and M. Gallart taught us both
to read and write, and to understand the best
writers, whose works he lent us from his
library. But my sister was proud, and never
loved me much; and when she married a
rich man, and went to Paris to live, she
thought of us no more. I forgave all this:
but when my father lay ill, and his farm
had gone to ruin, we wrote to her in vain.
When he died, and we wrote to her again,
and had no answer; I thought I never could
forgive her while I lived. The good old curé
had been removed to the parish of St. Etienne,
where he preaches now, some time before my
father died; but he came to me as soon as he
received the news, and arranged my father's
funeral. Afterwards, as I had no relatives in
the village, M. Gallart took me to Paris with
him, and placed me with Madame Armonville,
a milliner in the Rue Richelieu; where I
learnt how to earn my living. I have never
seen my sister since I have been here: but
once, soon after I came to Paris, I passed
by her house. I saw the windows brilliantly
lighted, and I heard music. They had a
party there that night. I stood looking up
at the windows, and crying bitterly. I would
have given all that I possessed to see my sister
once more, if only for a moment, to have
reminded her of the days we spent together
in our childhood. But I was afraid of being
driven from the door if I rang, and so I passed
on, and never went that way again. That is
my history, Monsieur."

"It is very sad," I said. " I will not tell
you now, by what strange order of events I
also am friendless in the world. Some other
time I will tell you all. Your story has made
me sad, and I do not like to dwell upon the
past. Let us rather look forward to the
future, and, like brother and sister, resolve to
help and cherish one another while we live."

I took her hand and pressed it in my own.
I spoke hurriedly and earnestly, for I felt
most deeply every word I uttered. A new
source of life had sprung up in my heart. I
forgot how little I was in a condition to help
her—poor and wretched as I was. The
sight of such a noble creature, despised and
ill-treated by the world, preserving all her
hope and cheerfulness, and seeking only to do
good to others, had made me a new man. All
life stood out before me with another aspect.
I felt a stronger faith than ever I had known
before, that all the evil in the world, the
thought of which had long haunted and
perplexed me, will one day vanish like a mist,
and show the beauty of God's purpose hid
within. I was so happy, and so filled with
hope, that I thought I felt the near approach
of better days: and indeed from that time,
the current of my fortune ebbed and
turned.

At the end of three weeks I was so far
recovered as to leave the house and renew
my search for employment. I found a great
change had taken place since I had kept my
room. In every trade there seemed to be new
life; and, in a few days, I was engaged in a
manufactory in the Rue St. Denis. My
employer was pleased with my work, and paid
me well. My first care was to repay my friend
the money which I owed her. She arranged
to visit the curé on the following Sunday, and
show him her money, as she had originally
intended. I offered to accompany her.