onger in order to acquire the
full strength so as to be able to tell me everything. Assuredly we
will help you!"

* * * * *

In the course of convalescence Henriette told her complete story to
Sister Genevieve. The narrative included the girls' journey to Paris,
her kidnapping and rescue, the disappearance of Louise, de Vaudrey's
suit and the objections of his family, the recognition of her sister
as the Countess's long-lost daughter, Louise's recapture by the
beggars, and the peremptory act of the Police Prefect whereby mother
and daughter, and beloved foster-sisters, were cruelly parted, and
Henriette branded with the mark of the fallen woman by incarceration
in La Salpetriere.

Sister Genevieve was strangely moved by it, as was the Doctor to whom
she repeated it.

"Against the will of the Police Prefect we can do nothing!" said the
Doctor, soberly. "If only his wrath has cooled, we may possibly get
her term shortened--"

"What monstrous wickedness!" interrupted the Sister, ordinarily mild
and loyal, but worked up to near-democracy by these and other
injustices. "To imprison a pure girl--her only offence a nobleman's
honorable suit and her own ceaseless search for her blind sister, lost
in the streets of Paris!"

"This girl Henriette was her blind sister's sole support," suggested a
nurse.

"I had found her--Louise--at the moment when they arrested me,"
exclaimed Henriette sorrowfully. "I heard her voice. I saw her. She
was covered with rags. Her beautiful golden hair fell in disorder on
her shoulders. She was being dragged along by a horrible old woman,
who I know ill-treats her--beats her, perhaps, and they would not let
me go to her. Now I have lost her forever--forever!"

"Wait a minute, my child," exclaimed the physician, as a sudden
thought flashed over him. "I believe I have met that very same girl."

"You, monsieur?" exclaimed Henriette in surprise.

"Yes--yes, a young girl led by an old woman who calls her Louise--"

"Yes--yes, that's her name," and the young girl became breathless with
excitement.

"I know the old woman, too," continued the Doctor. "She is called La
Frochard--an old hag who goes about whining for alms in the name of
Heaven and seven small children.

"Where did I last see them?" he mused. Suddenly he recollected a
little scene on the steps of Notre Dame one morning before mass. "Oh,
yes," he continued, "they were begging for charity