Jeanne-Marie acquiesced silently.  Madelon’s scanty wardrobe had all been mended and put in order, and now it was spread out before her; but somehow the sight of the old black silk frock brought a sudden chill with it; the very last time she had put it on had been on the morning of the day she had escaped from the convent.  Since then what had she not gone through! what disappointment, terror, sickness nearly to death!  Might she not indeed have been dead by this time, or a prisoner for ever within the convent walls, had it not been for Jeanne-Marie?  Her eyes filled with tears at the thought.  She longed to tell Jeanne-Marie once more how much she loved her; but the woman had left the room, and Madelon could only lie patiently, and think of all she was going to do, when she should be well again.

CHAPTER XV.

A Summer with Jeanne-Marie.

At the back of Jeanne-Marie’s house lay the garden, sheltered by the steep rocky hill that rose just beyond.  All through the long summer evenings the voices of the men, as they sat smoking and drinking in its vine-covered arbours, might be heard; but during the day it was comparatively deserted, and Jeanne-Marie had no difficulty in finding a quiet, shady corner where Madelon might sit as long as she pleased without being disturbed.  An outside wooden staircase led from her room to the garden below, so that she could come and go without passing through the lower rooms of the house; and we may be sure that it was considered a golden day by both her and Jeanne-Marie, when she first made this little expedition.  The child, still almost too weak to stand or walk, was carried by her strong, kind hostess down the flight of steps, and once more found herself under the blue heavens, with a world of sweet summer sights and sounds around her, as she lay on her little improvised couch amongst the flowers and sweet-smelling herbs.

“There,” said Jeanne-Marie, contemplating her with much satisfaction, “now you have nothing to do but to get well again as fast as you can.”

“Ah, I shall soon be well now!” cried Madelon, joyfully.  The colour came into her pale cheeks, her eyes shone with a new light.  Mists, and rain, and darkness seemed to have fled from her life, and in their place a full tide of summer sunshine, in which the birds sang gladly, and the flowers seemed to spring up and open unconsciously, was crowning and glorifying the day.

That she had nothing to do but to get well, was not at all Madelon’s idea, however.  A few evenings later, as she lay awake in her bed, watching Jeanne-Marie moving about in the twilight, arranging things for the night, she said,—­

“Jeanne-Marie, I want to earn some money.”

“Some money, little one!  What is that for?”

“Ah, that I cannot tell you; but I want some, very much—­thirty francs at least.  See here, I have been thinking—­I can embroider—­Soeur Lucie said I could do it almost as well as she could; do you think you could get me some to do?  Ah, please help me.  I should like to earn some money.”