“It was not long before I was also sleeping soundly the deep, dreamless sleep which comes to any one as strong as I was, after unusual physical exertion.  Once or twice a vague impression forced itself upon me that Minima was talking a great deal in her dreams.  It was the clang of the bell for matins which fully roused me at last, but it was a minute or two before I could make out where I was.  Through the uncurtained window, high in the opposite wall, I could see a dim, pallid moon sinking slowly into the west.  The thick beams of the cross were strongly delineated against its pale light.  For a moment I fancied that Minima and I had passed the night under the shelter of the solitary image, which we had left alone in the dark and rainy evening.  I knew better immediately, and lay still, listening to the tramp of the wooden sabots hurrying past the door into the church-porch.  Then Minima began to talk.

“How funny that is!” she said, “there the boys run, and I can’t catch one of them.  Father, Temple Secundus is pulling faces at me, and all the boys are laughing.”  “Well! it doesn’t matter, does it?  Only we are so poor, Aunt Nelly and all.  We’re so poor—­so poor—­so poor!”

Her voice fell into a murmur too low for me to hear what she was saying, though she went on talking rapidly, and laughing and sobbing at times.  I called to her, but she did not answer.

What could ail the child?  I went to her, and took her hands in mine—­burning little hands.  I said, “Minima! and she turned to me with a caressing gesture, raising her hot fingers to stroke my face.

“Yes, Aunt Nelly.  How poor we are, you and me!  I am so tired, and the prince never comes!”

There was hardly room for me in the narrow bed, but I managed to lie down beside her, and took her into my arms to soothe her.  She rested there quietly enough; but her head was wandering, and all her whispered chatter was about the boys, and the dominie, her father, and the happy days at home in the school in Epping Forest.  As soon as it was light I dressed myself in haste, and opened my door to see if I could find any one to send to Monsieur Laurentie.

The first person I saw was himself, coming in my direction.  I had not fairly looked at him before, for I had seen him only by twilight and firelight.  His cassock was old and threadbare, and his hat brown.  His hair fell in rather long locks below his hat, and was beautifully white.  His face was healthy-looking, like that of a man who lived much out-of-doors, and his clear, quick eyes shone with a kindly light.  I ran impulsively to meet him, with outstretched hands, which he took into his own with a pleasant smile.

“Oh, come, monsieur,” I cried; “make haste!  She is ill, my poor Minima!”

The smile faded away from his face in an instant, and he did not utter a word.  He followed me quickly to the side of the little bed, laid his hand softly on the child’s forehead, and felt her pulse.  He lifted up her head gently, and, opening her mouth, looked at her tongue and throat.  He shook his head as he turned to me with a grave and perplexed expression, and he spoke with a low, solemn accent.