er thoughts so far away, so absorbed in her one fixed idea,
that she beheld nothing save the certainty of her hope. Round about her,
the Sainte-Honorine Ward was now quite deserted, all the patients,
excepting Madame Vetu, who lay at the last extremity in the next bed,
having already started for the Grotto. But Marie did not even notice her
neighbour; she was delighted with the sudden stillness which had fallen.
One of the windows overlooking the courtyard had been opened, and the
glorious morning sunshine entered in one broad beam, whose golden dust
was dancing over her bed and streaming upon her pale hands. It was indeed
pleasant to find this room, so dismal at nighttime with its many beds of
sickness, its unhealthy atmosphere, and its nightmare groans, thus
suddenly filled with sunlight, purified by the morning air, and wrapped
in such delicious silence! "Why don't you try to sleep a little?"
maternally inquired Madame de Jonquiere. "You must be quite worn out by
your vigil."

Marie, who felt so light and cheerful that she no longer experienced any
pain, seemed surprised.

"But I am not at all tired, and I don't feel a bit sleepy. Go to sleep?
Oh! no, that would be too sad. I should no longer know that I was going
to be cured!"

At this the superintendent laughed. "Then why didn't you let them take
you to the Grotto?" she asked. "You won't know what to do with yourself
all alone here."

"I am not alone, madame, I am with her," replied Marie; and thereupon,
her vision returning to her, she clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Last
night, you know, I saw her bend her head towards me and smile. I quite
understood her, I could hear her voice, although she never opened her
lips. When the Blessed Sacrament passes at four o'clock I shall be
cured."

Madame de Jonquiere tried to calm her, feeling rather anxious at the
species of somnambulism in which she beheld her. However, the sick girl
went on: "No, no, I am no worse, I am waiting. Only, you must surely see,
madame, that there is no need for me to go to the Grotto this morning,
since the appointment which she gave me is for four o'clock." And then the
girl added in a lower tone: "Pierre will come for me at half-past three.
At four o'clock I shall be cured."

The sunbeam slowly made its way up her bare arms, which were now almost
transparent, so wasted had they become through illness; whilst her
glorious fair hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, seemed like the
ver