“Why, it is like an egg-shell,” he said.  “God bless you, mam’zelle, God bless you for getting well again!”

She laughed at his words—­a feeble though merry laugh, like a child’s—­and she seemed delighted with the sight of his hearty face, glowing as it was with happiness.  It was a strange chance that had thrown these two together.  I could not allow Tardif to remain long; but after that she kept devising little messages to send to him through me whenever I was about to leave her.  Her intercourse with Mother Renouf was extremely limited, as the old woman’s knowledge of English was slight; and with Suzanne she could hold no conversation at all.  It happened, in consequence, that I was the only person who could talk or listen to her through the long and dreary hours.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

WHO ARE HER FRIENDS?

At another time I might have recognized the danger of my post; but my patient had become so childish-looking, and her mind, enfeebled by delirium, was in so childish a condition, that it seemed to me I little more than tending some young girl whose age was far below my own.  I did not trouble myself, moreover, with any exact introspection.  There was an under-current of satisfaction and happiness running through the hours which I was not inclined to fathom.  The winds continued against me, and I had nothing to do but to devote myself to mam’zelle, as I called her in common with the people about me.  She was still so far in a precarious state that, if she had been living in Guernsey, it would have been my duty to pay to her unflagging attention.

But upon Friday afternoon Tardif, who had been down to the Creux Harbor, brought back the information that one of the Sark cutters was about to venture to make the passage across the Channel the next morning, to attend the Saturday market, if the wind did not rise again in the night.  It was clear as day what I must do.  I must bid farewell to my patient, however reluctant I might be, with a very uncertain prospect of seeing her again.  A patient in Sark could not have many visits from a doctor in Guernsey.

She was recovering with the wonderful elasticity of a thoroughly sound constitution; but I had not considered it advisable for her even to sit up yet, with her broken arm and sprained ankle.  I took my seat beside her for the last time, her fair, sweet face lying upon the pillow as it had done when I first saw it, only the look of suffering was gone.  I had made up my mind to learn something of the mystery that surrounded her; and the child, as I called her to myself, was so submissive to me that she would answer my questions readily.

“Mam’zelle,” I said, “I am going away to-night.  You will be sorry to lose me?”

“Very, very sorry,” she answered, in her low, touching voice.  “Are you obliged to go?”

If I had not been obliged to go, I should then and there have made a solemn vow to remain with her till she was well again.