“Oh, yes, she has improved, no doubt; it would be astonishing if she had not, after being here more than two years; but that is not the question.  However, I must be going,” she added, “I have a hundred things to do before vespers.  And the border for that altar-cloth will be ready by the end of the month, you think?”

“I hope so,” answered Soeur Lucie.  “Madelon shall help me as soon as she is strong enough again; she can embroider quite nicely now.”

“So much the better; she will have to do plenty by-and-by, and make herself useful if she is to stay here.”

Soeur Ursule left the room as she spoke, and Soeur Lucie, with her knitting in her lap, sat meditating in the darkness.  Presently a restless movement in the bed roused her.  “Are you awake, Madelon?” she said softly.

No answer, only another toss, and a sort of long sigh.  Soeur Lucie rose, lighted a candle, measured out some medicine, and then with the glass in one hand, and the light in the other, she came to the bedside.  Madelon was lying with her back towards her, her arms flung over her head, her face buried in the pillow.  She did not move, and Soeur Lucie touched her gently.

“It is time to take your medicine, mon enfant,” she said.

Madelon turned round then, and taking the glass, drank off the contents without a word; as she gave it back to the nun, something in her face or expression, fairly startled the little sister.

“Why, whatever is the matter, mon enfant?” she cried, “you must have been dreaming, I think.”

“No, I have not been dreaming,” answered Madelon; and then, as the nun turned away to put the glass and candle on the table, she caught hold of her gown with all the strength of which her feeble fingers were capable.

“Don’t go, please don’t go, Soeur Lucie,” she said, “I want to speak to you.”

“In a moment; I am not going,” answered the sister.  “Well, what is it, ma petite?” she added, coming back to the bedside.

“What—­what was it Soeur Ursule was saying to you just now?” asks Madelon.

“Just now!” cried Soeur Lucie, taken aback; “why, I thought you were asleep.”

“No, I was not asleep,” Madelon answered, “I only had my eyes shut.”

“But that is very naughty, mon enfant, to pretend to be asleep when you are awake.”

“I didn’t pretend,” said Madelon aggrieved, “only I hadn’t opened my eyes, and I could not help hearing what you said.”

“Ah well, if you heard, there is no use in my telling you,” says Soeur Lucie, who was not at all above using that imperfect, but irrefragable, logic familiar to us from our nurseries; “so you had better go to sleep again, for I cannot stop here any longer.  Let me smoothe your pillow.”

“No,” said Madelon, escaping from her hands with an impatient toss.  “Ah, don’t go away yet,” she added piteously.  “Was it true what Soeur Ursule said about me?”