ly light and air. A narrow iron cot, a
combination stand, and a low stool constituted the sole furniture. A
rusty iron crucifix in the middle of the wall opposite the bed was the
only decoration. The rest was blank stone, staring white with
crumbling whitewash.

Stone floor, stone walls, stone ceiling,--cold, clammy, cheerless.

The floor was worn into a smooth, shallow furrow lengthwise, showing
where countless weary inmates had paced up and down, up and down,
during the long hours. And beneath the crucifix were scooped out two
round hollows in the solid rock, where countless knees had bent in
recognition of the Christ.

The religieuse seemed to forget the presence of Fouchette, for she
dropped upon her own knees in the little hollows in the cold stone
floor beneath the rusty iron crucifix on the wall.

"Oh, pardon, my child!" she exclaimed, coming back to the present as
she arose from prayer, "I forgot. Forty years ago,--it comes upon me
here."

She gently removed the little hat with its cheap flowers, then bent
over and kissed the thin cheeks, promising to return soon with
something to eat.

Fouchette heard the door close, the key grate harshly in the lock.

The moisture of the lips and eyes remained upon her cheeks. She felt
it still warm, and involuntarily put up both hands, as if to further
convince herself that the kisses were real and to hold them there.

The Christ was to her a myth, the crucifix a vague superstition,
prayer a mere unmeaning mummery. But the kisses were tangible and
easily understood.

But oh! the country!--the woods! the fields! the flowers!--freedom!

She threw herself on the iron cot and wept passionately.

CHAPTER IV

"La, la, la!" came the cheery but subdued voice of Sister Agnes. She
had re-entered the cell to catch the last faint sounds of childish
grief coming out of the darkness.

"There! Softly now, petite! Where are you? Oh! If they catch me here
at this hour and bringing--sh!"

The good-hearted woman had groped her way to the cot, raised Fouchette
to a sitting posture, and, sitting down by her side, pulled the child
over in her arms.

Fouchette, who had almost ceased to weep by this time, was at once
overcome anew by the motherly caress and broke down completely. She
flung her arms wildly about Sister Agnes's neck and buried her face in
the ample bosom.

"La, la, la, la! my little skeleton, there is nothing to be afraid of
here. Nothing at all! Don't ta