children, she plunged into a whining tale, with a ceaseless rush of
words. Several of her teeth were missing, and she could be understood
with difficulty. The gracious God had sent every affliction on her
head, she declared. The gentleman lodger had gone away, and she had
only just been enabled to rise after lying for three months in bed;
yes, the old pain still remained, it now gripped her everywhere; a
neighbor had told her that a spider must have got in through her mouth
while she was asleep. If she had only had a little fire, she could
have warmed her stomach; that was the only thing that could relieve
her now. But nothing could be had for nothing--not even a match.
Perhaps she was right in thinking that madame had been travelling?
That was her own concern, of course. At all events, she looked very
well, and fresh, and beautiful. God would requite her for all her
kindness. Then, as Helene began to draw out her purse, Mother Fetu
drew breath, leaning against the railing that encircled Jeanne's
grave.

The funeral processions had vanished from sight. Somewhere in a grave
close at hand a digger, whom they could not see, was wielding his
pickaxe with regular strokes.

Meanwhile the old woman had regained her breath, and her eyes were
riveted on the purse. Then, anxious to extort as large a sum as
possible, she displayed considerable cunning, and spoke of the other
lady. Nobody could say that she was not a charitable lady; still, she
did not know what to do with her money--it never did one much good.
Warily did she glance at Helene as she spoke. And next she ventured to
mention the doctor's name. Oh! he was good. Last summer he had again
gone on a journey with his wife. Their boy was thriving; he was a fine
child. But just then Helene's fingers, as she opened the purse, began
to tremble, and Mother Fetu immediately changed her tone. In her
stupidity and bewilderment she had only now realized that the good
lady was standing beside her daughter's grave. She stammered, gasped,
and tried to bring tears to her eyes. Jeanne, said she, had been so
dainty a darling, with such loves of little hands; she could still see
her giving her silver in charity. What long hair she had! and how her
large eyes filled with tears when she gazed on the poor! Ah! there was
no replacing such an angel; there were no more to be found like her,
were they even to search the whole of Passy. And when the fine days
came, said Mother Fetu, she would