into the shady waiting-room, and
stood drinking in the perfume of the roses that clambered about the
open window. Presently the Mother's steps approached, but when she saw
me she had no longer in her voice the cheery notes with which she used
to greet me, nor did she offer to send Sister Gabrielle to me.

In a few sad words she told me my sweet nurse was dead, that she had
died as she had lived, beloved by all who were privileged to be near
her. There was no positive disease, the doctor had said, but some shock
or grief of years before must have undermined her health, and the life
of self-sacrifice she led had not been calculated to lengthen the frail
strand of her life. Gently and without struggle it had snapped, and she
had drooped and died with the early violets.

Touched and saddened, I turned down the steep street to the lower town.
More than ever I wondered what had been the history of the brave,
beautiful woman who had nursed me seven years before.

Turning the corner of the Place Chateaubriand, I ran against a man.

'Pardon, monsieur!'

'Pardon, monsieur!'

The exclamations were simultaneous. Looking up, we two men recognised
each other.

'Ah, my dear doctor!' I exclaimed.

'_Sapristi_, my dear lieutenant! What are you doing in St. Malo?'

Having properly accounted for my presence in the old Breton town, and
made known to Dr. Nadaud how glad I was to see him again, we two went
off together to lunch at the Hotel de Bretagne, where I had left my
luggage.

Having refreshed ourselves with a light French dejeuner, the doctor and
his former patient strolled out of the long dining-room into the
central courtyard of the hotel, which the sun had not yet made too
warm, and there, installing ourselves at a little round table, we
smoked and sipped our coffee.

'I will tell you all I know,' said the doctor, in reply to a question
from me. 'It seemed almost a breach of confidence to tell you Sister
Gabrielle's story while she lived, for I knew that she had come away
out of the world on purpose to work unknown and to bury all that
remained of Jeanne D'Alcourt. When she first came, she seemed not at
all pleased to see me, no doubt because my presence reminded her of
Caen and of the scenes that she had turned her back upon for ever.

'Well,' continued Dr. Nadaud, 'the D'Alcourts had lived for generations
in a fine old house on the Boulevard de l'Est, and it was there that
Jeanne was born. Next door lived my sister