me from?
Who are you?"

But the more she was spoken to the more frightened she became, turning
her head as if someone were behind her who would beat her. She examined
the kitchen furtively, the flaggings, the beams, and the shining
utensils; then her glance passed through the irregular windows which
were left in the ancient opening, and she saw the garden clear to the
trees by the Bishop's house, whose white shadows towered above the wall
at the end, while at the left, as if astonished at finding itself there,
stretched along the whole length of the alley the Cathedral, with its
Romanesque windows in the chapels of its apses. And again, from the
heat of the stove which began to penetrate her, she had a long attack
of shivering, after which she turned her eyes to the floor and remained
quiet.

"Do you belong to Beaumont? Who is your father?"

She was so entirely silent that Hubert thought her throat must be too
dry to allow her to speak.

Instead of questioning her he said: "We would do much better to give her
a cup of coffee as hot as she can drink it."

That was so reasonable that Hubertine immediately handed her the cup
she herself held. Whilst she cut two large slices of bread and buttered
them, the child, still mistrustful, continued to shrink back; but her
hunger was too great, and soon she ate and drank ravenously. That there
need not be a restraint upon her, the husband and wife were silent, and
were touched to tears on seeing her little hand tremble to such a degree
that at times it was difficult for her to reach her mouth. She made use
only of her left hand, for her right arm seemed to be fastened to her
chest. When she had finished, she almost broke the cup, which she caught
again by an awkward movement of her elbow.

"Have you hurt your arm badly?" Hubertine asked. "Do not be afraid, my
dear, but show it to me."

But as she was about to touch it the child rose up hastily, trying
to prevent her, and as in the struggle she moved her arm, a little
pasteboard-covered book, which she had hidden under her dress, slipped
through a large tear in her waist. She tried to take it, and when she
saw her unknown hosts open and begin to read it, she clenched her fist
in anger.

It was an official certificate, given by the Administration des Enfants
Assistes in the Department of the Seine. On the first page, under a
medallion containing a likeness of Saint Vincent de Paul, were the
printed prescribed forms. For th