Too well did the girl know why that question was asked her, and now that
her first sickening horror was over, her brave spirit nerved itself
once more.

"I was journeying with a friend yesterday," she replied, "when the
snow-storm overtook us. Luckily we met a man whose home lay in our road.
He was very good, and took us there and gave us supper and beds."

The stranger laughed.

"A good Samaritan, indeed! And your friend? Where is he now? Did he find
his hosts so hospitable that he was unable to tear himself away?"

"No," said Babette, gently, "he started early; before I came down he was
far on his road. They were very good to me, and gave me coffee before I
left. I am a poor woman, and could do but little to repay them. The two
francs I gave them were almost my last."

This speech, uttered in such a soft, even voice--for Babette had
schooled herself well by now--seemed to satisfy her companion, and they
walked on side by side in silence for what seemed to the poor girl the
longest hour she had ever passed.

At last, in the far distance there rose the spires and roofs of
Brussels. The chiming of church bells came gaily towards them through
the frosty air, and Babette knew that her terrible journey was well-nigh
ended. At the entrance of the town the stranger stopped.

[Illustration: "GOOD-BYE."]

"Good-bye," she said, curtly; "I am late for the market, and must sell
my eggs quickly or shall not get my price."

[Illustration: "SHE SANK DOWN IN A HEAVY, DEATH-LIKE SWOON."]

She turned down a side street and disappeared, and Babette felt her
strength and mind both failing her now that she was out of danger. She
staggered weakly into a big, dim church, by the door of which the
parting happened to have taken place. Here she sank down in a heavy,
death-like swoon in front of one of the side altars, with her baby
wailing fretfully at her breast. When she came to herself again she was
seated in the sacristy, and her hair and face were wet with the water
they had flung over her. By her side stood a black-robed, kindly-faced
cure and two or three women, who were trying to force some wine down her
throat. By degrees her strength came back, and she raised herself and
asked piteously for her child. Then, when he was in her arms, she told
her story.

Wonder, horror, and bewilderment all dawned in turns on her hearers'
countenances, and it was not until she unpinned her baby's shawls and
handed the shabby pocket-book