heard her.

"Tell me," he said, hastily, "what this woman's name is."

"That is easy enough; I have her papers. It is something like Zeld, and
we have got to calling her Zelda--it is more taking, you know."

"Yes, I see; but do you know anything of her past?"

"Not much."

"She has a daughter?"

"Yes, which is not at all pleasant for us. Of course, the child can't
live here; she stays across the street. Zelda goes every night to the
shop for her. It is nonsense, of course, for she will go the same way as
her mother in the end."

"Will you show me the papers?" asked Sanselme, "and I will do all I can
for this woman."

"Help me to get rid of her! That is all I ask."

"Rely on me."

Sanselme presently had the papers in his hands. The sick woman's name
was Jane Zeld. She came from a little village in Switzerland, near
Zurich. There was also a paper dated many years since, signed by her
father, authorizing her to reside in the Commune of Selzheim, in Alsace.
Sanselme turned sick and dizzy; he caught at the wall for support.

"What on earth is the matter?" asked the old woman.

He stammered a few incoherent words. Then in a measure recovering
himself, he said:

"I give you my word that I will take her away in the morning."

"But if she should die in the night! However, I am too kind-hearted for
my own good. She may stay here to night. But who will take care of her?"

"I will," answered Sanselme; "but I must beg that you will take her
daughter out of the room."

"I can give her a bed in the closet next her mother's room. But you know
if it were known, I should get into trouble, because she's a minor."

They returned to the sick room. Zelda seemed calmer. The daughter was
crouched upon the floor at the side of the bed. Sanselme spoke to her
gently.

"My child," he said, "I will take care of your mother to-night. You are
tired, and a room is ready for you."

"No! no!" cried the child. "I cannot stay here to-night, unless I am in
my mother's room."

And she looked so horrified that Sanselme was silent. He realized what
this young creature must feel at the terrible life led by her mother.
When the girl understood that the room she was to have could be reached
only through that occupied by her mother, she said no more, but she
seemed to shrink from the very air she breathed.

The unhappy Zelda had fallen into a state of prostration, that rendered
her unconscious of all that was going on about her. Her dau