But it was, after all, only the gay, and prosperous, and happy that she shunned.  The poor, the friendless, the erring, the rejected of this world, were certain to find in Jeanne-Marie a friend who never failed, one who looked out for the sorrowful and broken-hearted, and never passed by on the other side.  Even the village children knew to whom to run when hurt, or unhappy, or in disgrace, sure of getting consolation and sugar-plums from the sad, lonely woman, though equally sure of being sent away as soon as their tears were dried, and their troubles forgotten.  If the poor, abused Ugly Duckling of Hans Andersen’s tale had strayed on a wintry day to her door, she would have taken it in, and nourished, and cherished it all through the cold, dark weather; but when the summer was come, and the duckling grown into a swan, spread its broad white wings against the blue sky, she would have watched it fly away without word or sign to detain it; she would have had nothing in common with it then.

So to Jeanne-Marie it seemed the simplest thing in the world, that, having found Madelon in need of help, she should help her at the cost of any trouble to herself; that she should take in, and cherish this poor little stray girl without inquiry, without hope, or thought of reward.  At Madelon, happy, successful, contented, Jeanne-Marie would not have looked a second time; but for Madelon, forsaken, shelterless, dependent on her, she would have been ready almost to lay down her life.

In about half an hour, Jacques Monnier returned with the doctor.  He knew Jeanne-Marie well, as he knew everyone in the village, and went at once upstairs to the little bedroom where Madelon was lying.

“Your niece, I think Jacques Monnier told me?” he said, after watching Madelon for a minute as she lay in her uneasy sleep.

“Yes,” said Jeanne-Marie with a certain sullenness of manner, which she was apt to display towards her superiors in station.

“Has she been here long?” said the doctor, feeling Madelon’s pulse, but looking steadily at the woman; “when was she taken ill?  How is it you have not called me in before?”

“Look here, Monsieur le Docteur,” answered Jeanne-Marie with a sort of stolid defiance, “I called you in to tell me what to do for the child, not to put me through a catechism.  She fainted away this morning, and when she came to herself again, she began to rave and talk nonsense, so I sent for you.  Now tell me what is to be done.”

Just then Madelon opened her eyes.

“Do you not know me, Madame?” she said.  “I am Madeleine Linders, and papa is dead; he sent me to be with Aunt Therese, but she is dead too—­Oh, save me, save me!” she cried, springing up with all the old terror upon her; “don’t let them take me, papa, you made me promise that I would not stay there.  Tell Aunt Therese to go away, papa; papa, save me!” and she clung to the doctor’s arm.  “Besides, you know,” she went on, speaking fast and eagerly, “I promised him—­Monsieur Horace, you know—­and I must keep it, I must keep my promise to Monsieur Horace,—­I must, I must!”