thrown herself into a chair.  The deepest silence reigned in the house.  It was now and then interrupted by the soughing of a high wind, which raged without and shook the trees in the garden.  A single candle lighted the room, which was papered with dark green.  That peculiar tint, and the hunchback’s black dress, increased her apparent paleness.  Seated in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, with her head resting upon her bosom, her hands crossed upon her knees, the work-girl’s countenance was melancholy and resigned; on it was visible the austere satisfaction which is felt by the consciousness of a duty well performed.

Like all those who, brought up in the merciless school of misfortune, no longer exaggerate the sentiment of sorrow, too familiar and assiduous a guest to be treated as a stranger, Mother Bunch was incapable of long yielding to idle regrets and vain despair, with regard to what was already past.  Beyond doubt, the blow had been sudden, dreadful; doubtless it must leave a long and painful remembrance in the sufferer’s soul; but it was soon to pass, as it were, into that chronic state of pain-durance, which had become almost an integral part of her life.  And then this noble creature, so indulgent to fate, found still some consolations in the intensity of her bitter pain.  She had been deeply touched by the marks of affection shown her by Angela, Agricola’s intended:  and she had felt a species of pride of the heart, in perceiving with what blind confidence, with what ineffable joy, the smith accepted the favorable presentiments which seemed to consecrate his happiness.  Mother Bunch also said to herself:  “At least, henceforth I shall not be agitated by hopes, or rather by suppositions as ridiculous as they were senseless.  Agricola’s marriage puts a term to all the miserable reveries of my poor head.”

Finally, she found a real and deep consolation in the certainty that she had been able to go through this terrible trial, and conceal from Agricola the love she felt for him.  We know how formidable to this unfortunate being were those ideas of ridicule and shame, which she believed would attach to the discovery of her mad passion.  After having remained for some time absorbed in thought, Mother Bunch rose, and advanced slowly towards the desk.

“My only recompense,” said she, as she prepared the materials for writing, “will be to entrust the mute witness of my pains with this new grief.  I shall at least have kept the promise that I made to myself.  Believing, from the bottom of my soul, that this girl is able to make Agricola happy, I told him so with the utmost sincerity.  One day, a long time hence, when I shall read over these pages, I shall perhaps find in that a compensation for all that I now suffer.”

So saying, she drew the box from the pigeon-hole.  Not finding her manuscript, she uttered a cry of surprise; but, what was her alarm, when she perceived a letter to her address in the place of the journal!  She became deadly pale; her knees trembled; she almost fainted away.  But her increasing terror gave her a fictitious energy, and she had the strength to break the seal.  A bank-note for five hundred francs fell from the letter on the table, and Mother Bunch read as follows: