“Now I am going to fix your feet, little one, so you can walk comfortably,” said Jean, when she had finished.
Then he carefully bound up her bruised and bleeding feet in soft linen rags, and Jeanne brought out a pair of soft woollen stockings and rubbers of her own as further expedients of relief. Now, warm and carefully protected against the dampness, the little lame girl regained her fortitude and good spirits, and the reaction gave fresh vigor to her weary limbs.
“Now come, my child,” said he, as he put on his coat. After tenderly embracing his wife, he took Sidonie’s hand in his and together they started for St. Benoit. As they walked along Sidonie acquainted him with the facts of the case as well as she was able.
“Yes, I agree with you, little one. It surely was not Bruno who killed Savin.”
“When I saw he had determined to criminate himself, I was perfectly willing to die,” said Sidonie, with a sigh.
“Poor child, I understand,” replied Jean, consolingly.
“It was Jeannille Marselon who thought of you first.”
“Jeannille Marselon!”
“Yes. She said to me: ‘Go and find L’Ours, child.’”
“Brave woman! For once in her life she spoke well.”