condition; but from this they glided to other subjects, as they stood near each other, face to face.  A closer acquaintance was springing up between them, and they were surprised to find they possessed similar tastes.  They understood one another without speaking a word, each heart engulfed in the same overflowing charity.  Nothing to Helene seemed sweeter than this mutual feeling, which arose in such an unusual way, and to which she yielded without resistance, filled as she was with divine pity.  At first she had felt somewhat afraid of the doctor; in her own drawing-room she would have been cold and distrustful, in harmony with her nature.  Here, however, in this garret they were far from the world, sharing the one chair, and almost happy in the midst of the wretchedness and poverty which filled their souls with emotion.  A week passed, and they knew one another as though they had been intimate for years.  Mother Fetu’s miserable abode was filled with sunshine, streaming from this fellowship of kindliness.

The old woman grew better very slowly.  The doctor was surprised, and charged her with coddling herself when she related that she now felt a dreadful weight in her legs.  She always kept up her monotonous moaning, lying on her back and rolling her head to and fro; but she closed her eyes, as though to give her visitors an opportunity for unrestrained talk.  One day she was to all appearance sound asleep, but beneath their lids her little black eyes continued watching.  At last, however, she had to rise from her bed; and next day Helene presented her with the promised bonnet and gown.  When the doctor made his appearance that afternoon the old woman’s laggard memory seemed suddenly stirred.  “Gracious goodness!” said she, “I’ve forgotten my neighbor’s soup-pot; I promised to attend to it!”

Then she disappeared, closing the door behind her and leaving the couple alone.  They did not notice that they were shut in, but continued their conversation.  The doctor urged Helene to spend the afternoon occasionally in his garden in the Rue Vineuse.

“My wife,” said he, “must return your visit, and she will in person repeat my invitation.  It would do your daughter good.”

“But I don’t refuse,” she replied, laughing.  “I do not require to be fetched with ceremony.  Only—­only—­I am afraid of being indiscreet.  At any rate, we will see.”

Their talk continued, but at last the doctor exclaimed in a tone of surprise:  “Where on earth can Mother Fetu have gone?  It must be a quarter of an hour since she went to see after her neighbor’s soup-pot.”

Helene then saw that the door was shut, but it did not shock her at the moment.  She continued to talk of Madame Deberle, of whom she spoke highly to her husband; but noticing that the doctor constantly glanced towards the door, she at last began to feel uncomfortable.

“It’s very strange that she does not come back!” she remarked in her turn.