not to see
them again, and they made no advances, either from forgetfulness or out
of innate hardness.

Virginia was growing weaker.

A cough, continual fever, oppressive breathing and spots on her cheeks
indicated some serious trouble. Monsieur Popart had advised a sojourn in
Provence. Madame Aubain decided that they would go, and she would have
had her daughter come home at once, had it not been for the climate of
Pont-l'Eveque.

She made an arrangement with a livery-stable man who drove her over to
the convent every Tuesday. In the garden there was a terrace, from which
the view extends to the Seine. Virginia walked in it, leaning on her
mother's arm and treading the dead vine leaves. Sometimes the sun,
shining through the clouds, made her blink her lids, when she gazed at
the sails in the distance, and let her eyes roam over the horizon from
the chateau of Tancarville to the lighthouses of Havre. Then they rested
on the arbour. Her mother had bought a little cask of fine Malaga wine,
and Virginia, laughing at the idea of becoming intoxicated, would drink
a few drops of it, but never more.

Her strength returned. Autumn passed. Felicite began to reassure Madame
Aubain. But, one evening, when she returned home after an errand, she
met M. Boupart's coach in front of the door; M. Boupart himself was
standing in the vestibule and Madame Aubain was tying the strings of her
bonnet. "Give me my foot-warmer, my purse and my gloves; and be quick
about it," she said.

Virginia had congestion of the lungs; perhaps it was desperate.

"Not yet," said the physician, and both got into the carriage, while the
snow fell in thick flakes. It was almost night and very cold.

Felicite rushed to the church to light a candle. Then she ran after the
coach which she overtook after an hour's chase, sprang up behind and
held on to the straps. But suddenly a thought crossed her mind: "The
yard had been left open; supposing that burglars got in!" And down she
jumped.

The next morning, at daybreak, she called at the doctor's. He had been
home, but had left again. Then she waited at the inn, thinking that
strangers might bring her a letter. At last, at daylight she took the
diligence for Lisieux.

The convent was at the end of a steep and narrow street. When she
arrived about at the middle of it, she heard strange noises, a funeral
knell. "It must be for some one else," thought she; and she pulled the
knocker violently.

After sever