the small white face, the short rings of hair just appearing under the hat all crushed in her fall, the bundle lying at her side, and the worn frock and cloak soaked with rain.  “I wonder if she is alone?” added the woman to herself.  She glances round the empty church, then gently laying Madelon on the floor again, with a cushion to support her head, she went to the door, and peered out into the rain for a few moments; then, returning, without calling for help, or summoning any one, she stooped down, took Madelon in her arms—­which, indeed, she was well able to do, for she was a tall, strong woman, between thirty and forty, and the child was very slight and thin after her recent illness—­and carried her out of the church, down the street, towards the end of the village.  No one was stirring in the pouring rain, or seemed to notice her, except one or two boys, who ran after her shouting and singing—­“Eh, Jeanne-Marie, Jeanne-Marie—­what have you got to-day, Jeanne-Marie?” And to them she gave no sort of heed, walking steadily and swiftly on, without even turning her head, till she paused before a low, white-washed cottage, standing a little apart from the village, between the poplars that bordered the road.  In front was a bench, and on one side a vine, all dripping and forlorn, was trained over a trellis that sloped from the roof, and, with wooden supports, made a shelter for a row of bee-hives placed on a plank beneath; under the front gable was a wicker contrivance for pigeons, and below it, in large gold letters on a blue board, the words, “Cafe et Restaurant.”  The door opened at once into the little public room of the humblest pretentions, furnished with a cupboard containing a store of bottles and glasses, a stove in one corner, above it some bright copper tea-kettles, a dozen chairs, and a deal table pushed near the one small window that looked out on the road and the stream beyond, and then across fields, and meadows, and trees, to the hills.  A man, with a heavy, loutish face and figure, was sitting with his arms on the table, twirling a glass about in his fingers, a bottle half full of vine before him.  He turned round as Jeanne-Marie entered with Madelon in her arms, and rising slowly went towards them.

“Eh, Jeanne-Marie, what have you got there?” he said.

“Does that concern you?” answered the woman sharply enough; “drink your wine, Jacques Monnier, and do not trouble yourself with other people’s affairs.”

“Est-elle morte, la petite?” asked Jacques, recoiling at the sight of Madelon’s white face.

“Est-elle morte?” repeated Jeanne-Marie, “and with her eyes as wide open as yours! Allons, mon enfant, du courage,” she added, as Madelon opened her eyes for a moment; but she closed them again, and the woman looking round, said, “There will be no peace here, with you men coming in and out.  Open that door for me, Jacques,” pointing to one nearly opposite the entrance.