arrassed how to express her thought. "There," she said,
"there is the sun, is it not? That is the sun?"

"Yes, Mont Saint-Jean; I am attending to you," replied Fleur-de-Marie,
stooping her lovely face towards the hideous countenance of her
companion.

"Ah, you'll laugh at me," she replied, sorrowfully. "I want to say
something, and I do not know how."

"Oh, yes, say it, Mont Saint-Jean!"

"How kind you look always," said the prisoner, looking at
Fleur-de-Marie in a sort of ecstasy; "your eyes encourage me,--those
kind eyes! Well, then, I will try and say what I wish: There is the sun,
is it not? It is so warm, it lights up the prison, it is very pleasant
to see and feel, isn't it?"

"Certainly."

"But I have an idea,--the sun didn't make itself, and if we are grateful
to it, why, there is greater reason still why--"

"Why we should be grateful to him who created it; that is what you mean,
Mont Saint-Jean? You are right; and we ought to pray to, adore him,--he
is God!"

"Yes, that is my idea!" exclaimed the prisoner, joyously. "That is it! I
ought to be grateful to my companions, but I ought to pray to, adore
you, Goualeuse, for it is you who made them so good to me, instead of
being so unkind as they had been."

"It is God you should thank, Mont Saint-Jean, and not me."

"Yes, yes, yes, it is you, I see you; and it is you who did me such
kindness, by yourself and others."

"But if I am as good as you say, Mont Saint-Jean, it is God who has made
me so, and it is he, therefore, whom we ought to thank."

"Ah, indeed, it may be so since you say it!" replied the prisoner, whose
mind was by no means decided; "and if you desire it, let it be so; as
you please."

"Yes, my poor Mont Saint-Jean, pray to him constantly, that is the best
way of proving to me that you love me a little."

"If I love you, Goualeuse? Don't you remember, then, what you said to
those other prisoners to prevent them from beating me?--'It is not only
her whom you beat, it is her child also!' Well, it is all the same as
the way I love you; it is not only for myself that I love you, but also
for my child."

"Thanks, thanks, Mont Saint-Jean, you please me exceedingly when you say
that." And Fleur-de-Marie, much moved, extended her hand to her
companion.

"What a pretty, little, fairy-like hand! How white and small!" said Mont
Saint-Jean, receding as though she were afraid to touch it with her
coarse and clumsy hands.

Yet, after a mome