"S-sh!"
When Mlle. Fouchette's eyes were finally opened they first fell upon the motherly face of Sister Agnes, then wandered rapidly about the room, as if to fix her situation definitely, to again rest upon the religieuse. And this look was one of inexpressible content,—of boundless love and confidence.
Sister Agnes, who was seated on the edge of the sofa on which the girl lay extended, leaned over and affectionately kissed her lips.
"You are much better now, my child?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! I was afraid it might be only—only a dream,—one dreams such things, n'est-ce pas? But it is true! There is really a God, and prayers are answered—when one believes,—yes; when one believes very hard! Even the prayers of a poor little, miserable, wicked, motherless girl like me. Ah!——"
"Cer—certainly, chérie; but don't try to talk just yet. Wait a bit. You will feel stronger."
The religieuse thought the girl's mind was wandering.
"And good Ste. Geneviève heard me and had you sent to me. It was all I asked. For I knew that if I only had you, I could be good, and I would know what to do. It was all I asked—for myself. And you were sent at once. Dear, good, sweet Sister Agnes!—the only one who ever loved me!—except Tartar,—and love is necessary, n'est-ce pas?"
"You asked for me?"
Sister Agnes listened now with intense interest. Mlle. Fouchette was a revelation.