“Good Lord! and did you walk through the streets with a foot in this state?” and looking up at Selene she said affectionately.  “Poor child, poor child! it must have hurt you!  Why the swelling has risen above your sandal-straps.  It is frightful! and yet—­do you live far from this?”

“I can get home in half an hour.”

“Impossible!  First let me see on my tablets how much the paymaster owes you that I may go and fetch it, and then we will soon see what can be done with you.  Meanwhile you sit still daughter dear, and you Mary rest her foot on a stool and undo the straps very gently from her ankle.  Do not be afraid my child, she has soft, careful hands.”  As she spoke she rose and kissed Selene on her forehead and eyes, and Selene clung to her and could only say with swimming eyes, and a voice trembling with feeling: 

“Dame Hannah, dear widow Hannah.”

As the warm sunshine of an October clay reminds the traveller of the summer that is over, so the widow’s words and ways brought back to Selene the long lost love and care of her good mother; and something soothing mingled in the bitterness of the pain she was suffering.  She looked gratefully at the kind woman and obediently sat still; it was such a comfort once more to obey an order, and to obey willingly—­to feel herself a child again and to be grateful for loving care.

Hannah went away, and Mary knelt down in front of Selene to loosen and remove the straps which were half buried in the swelled muscles.  She did it with the greatest caution, but her fingers had hardly touched her, when Selene shrank back with a groan, and before she could undo the sandal, the patient had fainted away.  Mary fetched some water and bathed her brow, and the burning wound in her head, and by the time Selene had once more opened her eyes, dame Hannah had returned.  When the widow stroked her thick soft hair, Selene looked up with a smile and asked:  “Have I been to sleep?”

“You shut your eyes my child,” replied the widow.  “Here are your wages and your sister’s, for twelve days; do not move, I will put it in your little bag.  Mary has not succeeded in loosening your sandal, but the physician who is paid to attend on the factory people will be here directly, and will order what is proper for your poor foot.  The manager is having a litter fetched for you.—­Where do you live?”

“We?” cried Selene, alarmed.  “No, no, I must go home.”

“But my child you cannot walk farther than the court-yard even if we both help you.”

“Then let me get a litter out in the street.  My father—­no one must know—­I cannot.”

Hannah signed to Mary to leave them, and when she had shut the door on the deformed girl, she brought a stool, sat down opposite to Selene, laid a hand on the knee that was not hurt, and said: 

“Now, dear girl, we are alone.  I am no chatterbox, and will certainly not betray your confidence.  Tell me quietly who you belong to.  Tell me—­you believe that I mean well by you?”