nd arranging her hair, which was beautiful, black and silky; then she
tidied up the "room," which only had the result of making it look
emptier and poorer still.

She had not long to wait. Hearing the carriage in the road, she ran out
to meet the doctor. As he was walking towards the house she pointed to
the wagon.

"We live there in our wagon," she said.

He did not seem surprised; he was accustomed to the extreme poverty of
his patients; but Perrine, who was looking at him, noticed that he
frowned when he saw the sick woman lying on the mattress in the
miserable cart.

"Put out your tongue and give me your hand," he said.

Those who pay forty or a hundred francs for a visit from a doctor have
no idea of the brevity with which the poor people's cases are diagnosed.
In less than a minute his examination was made.

"A case for the hospital," he said.

Simultaneously, little Perrine and her mother uttered a cry.

"Now, child, leave me alone with your mother," he said in a tone of
command.

For a moment Perrine hesitated, but at a sign from her mother she left
the wagon and stood just outside.

"I am going to die," said the woman in a low voice.

"Who says that? What you need is nursing, and you can't get that here."

"Could I have my daughter at the hospital?"

"She can see you Thursdays and Sundays."

"What will become of her without me," murmured the mother, "alone in
Paris? If I have to die I want to go holding her hand in mine."

"Well, anyway, you can't be left in this cart. The cold nights would be
fatal for you. You must take a room. Can you?"

"If it is not for long, perhaps."

"Grain-of-Salt can rent you one, and won't charge much; but the room is
not all. You must have medicine and good food and care, all of which you
would get at the hospital."

"Doctor, that is impossible," said the sick woman. "I cannot leave my
little girl. What would become of her?"

"Well, it's as you like; it's your own affair. I have told you what I
think."

"You can come in, little girl, now," he called out. Then taking a leaf
from his note pad, he wrote out a prescription.

"Take that to the druggist, near the Church," he said, handing it to
Perrine. "No other, mind you. The packet marked _No. 1_ give to your
mother. Then give her the potion every hour. Give her the Quinquina
wine when she eats, for she must eat anything she wants, especially
eggs. I'll drop in again this evening."

She ran out after him.