It was nearly eleven in the evening before I thought of returning; as I had walked some distance, I directed my steps toward a farmhouse, intending to ask for some milk and bread.  Drops of rain began to splash at my feet, announcing a thunder-shower which I was anxious to escape.  Although there was a light in the place, and I could hear the sound of feet going and coming through the house, no one responded to my knock, and I walked around to one of the windows to ascertain if there was any one within.

I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall; the farmer, whom I knew, was sitting near his bed; I knocked on the window-pane and called to him.  Just then the door opened, and I was surprised to see Madame Pierson, who inquired who was there.

I waited a moment in order to conceal my astonishment.  I then entered the house, and asked permission to remain until the storm should pass.  I could not imagine what she was doing at such an hour in this deserted spot; suddenly I heard a plaintive voice from the bed, and turning my head I saw the farmer’s wife lying there with the seal of death on her face.

Madame Pierson, who had followed me, sat down before the old man who was bowed with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no noise as the sick woman was sleeping.  I took a chair and sat in a corner until the storm passed.

While I sat there I saw her rise from time to time and whisper something to the farmer.  One of the children, whom I took upon my knee, said that she had been coming every night since the mother’s illness.  She performed the duties of a sister of charity; there was no one else in the country who could do it; there was but one physician, and he was densely ignorant.

“That is Brigitte la Rose,” said the child; “don’t you know her?”

“No,” I replied in a low voice.  “Why do you call her by such a name?”

He replied that he did not know, unless it was because she had been rosy and the name had clung to her.

As Madame Pierson had laid aside her veil I could see her face; when the child left me I raised my head.  She was standing near the bed, holding in her hand a cup, which she was offering the sick woman who had awakened.  She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond.  Her beauty was not of the regular type.  How shall I express it?  Her large dark eyes were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes that shone with approaching death returned her gaze.  There was in that simple exchange of kindness and gratitude a beauty that can not be described.

The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over the lonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning.  The noise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchained elements made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed in the little cottage.  I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows, the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest;