the unfortunate is to
honour God."

"It is, my friend, when the objects deserve it; and thus nothing is more
worthy of compassion and respect than a woman like Madame Georges, who,
brought up by a pious and good mother in the strict observance of all
her duties, has never failed,--never! and has, moreover, courageously
borne herself in the midst of the most severe trials. But is it not to
honour God in the most acceptable way, to raise from the dust one of
those beings of the finest mould, whom he has been pleased to endow
richly? Does not she deserve compassion and respect,--yes,
respect,--who, unhappy girl! abandoned to her own instinct,--who,
tortured, imprisoned, degraded, sullied, has yet preserved, in holiness
and pureness of heart, those noble germs of good first implanted by the
Almighty? If you had but seen, poor child! how, at the first word of
interest expressed for her,--the first mark of kindness and right
feeling,--the most charming natural impulses, the purest tastes, the
most refined thoughts, the most poetic ideas, developed themselves
abundantly in her ingenuous mind, even as, in the early spring, a
thousand wild flowers lift up their heads at the first rays of the sun!
In a conversation of about an hour with Fleur-de-Marie, I have
discovered treasures of goodness, worth, prudence,--yes, prudence, old
Murphy. A smile came to my lips, and a tear in my eye, when, in her
gentle and sensible prattle, she urged on me the necessity of saving
forty sous a day, that I might be beyond want or evil temptations. Poor
little creature! she said all this with so serious and persuasive a
tone. She seemed so delighted to give me good advice, and experienced so
extreme a pleasure in hearing me promise to follow it! I was moved even
to tears; and you,--it affects you, my old friend."

"It does, my lord; the idea of making you lay by forty sous a day,
thinking you a workman, instead of urging you to spend money on her;
that does touch me."

"Hush; here are Madame Georges and Marie. Get all ready for our
departure; we must be in Paris in good time."

Thanks to the care of Madame Georges, Fleur-de-Marie was no longer like
her former self. A pretty peasant's cap, and two thick braids of light
brown hair, encircled her charming face. A large handkerchief of white
muslin crossed her bosom, and disappeared under the high fold of a small
shot taffetas apron, whose blue and red shades appeared to advantage
over a dark nun'