them as she spoke.

"Not for long, anyhow," responded the other, with a significance
Fouchette did not then understand.

Without other preliminary they led Fouchette down the platform.

"Where's your ticket?" asked the white-faced woman, coldly.

Fouchette nervously searched the bosom of her dress. In France the
railway ticket is surrendered at the point where the journey ceases,
as the traveller leaves the station platform.

"Sainte Marie!" exclaimed the ruddy-faced sister,--"lost it, I'll
wager!"

"Where on earth did you put it, child?"

"Here, madame," said the latter, still fumbling and not a little
frightened at the possible consequences of losing the bit of
cardboard. "Ah! here--no, it isn't. Mon Dieu!"

"Fouchette!"

The voice of the pale religieuse was stern, though her face rested
perfectly immobile, no matter what she said.

"Let me see----"

"Search, Sister Agnes."

The ruddy-faced woman obeyed by plunging her fat hand down the front
of the child's dress, where she fished around vigorously but
unsuccessfully.

"Nothing but bones!" she ejaculated.

Meanwhile, everybody else had left the platform, and the gatekeeper
was growing impatient.

Sister Agnes was a practical woman. She wound up her fruitless search
by shaking the child, as if the latter were a plum-tree and might
yield over-ripe railway tickets from its branches.

It did. The ticket dropped to the platform from beneath the
loose-fitting dress.

"There it is!" cried the gatekeeper.

"Stupid little beast!"

And Sister Agnes shook her again, although, as there were no more
tickets, the act seemed quite superfluous.

Outside the station waited a sort of carryall, or van, drawn by a
single horse, which turned his aged head to view the new-comer, as did
also the driver.

"Oh! so you're coming, eh?" said the latter.

"Yes,--long enough!" grumbled Sister Agnes.

They had driven some distance through the streets of a big town
without a word, when the last speaker addressed her companion in a low
voice.

"You noted the ticket?"

"Yes."

Another silence.

"I don't see what they sent her to us for, do you?"

"That is for the Superieure."

A still longer silence.

"It's a pity," continued Sister Agnes.

"Yes, they ought to go to the House of Correction."

"These Parisian police----"

"Chut!"

But they need not have taken even this little precaution before
Fouchette. She had long been lost in the profound depths of