"Oh! yes,—and they sent you—almost at once! Blessed Ste. Geneviève!"
"Why, what was the matter, Fouchette?" inquired Sister Agnes, wiping her eyes, after gently disengaging the young arms from her neck. She tried to speak cheerily.
"Take me as you did when I first saw you,—when I was in the cell,"—and the voice now was that of a pleading child,—"that way; yes,—kiss me once more."
On the matronly bosom of Sister Agnes the girl told her story,—the story of her love, of her suffering, of her hopes, of her final failure, of her despair.
"You see, my more than mother, it was too much——"
"Too much! I should think so!" interrupted the good sister, brusquely, to prevent a total breakdown. "Sainte Mère de Dieu! such is for the angels in heaven, mon enfant,—for mortals, never!"
"When I found she was my sister,—that her brother was my brother,—and that even Jean Marot—I could not be one to spoil this happiness by making myself known. No, I would rather die. I should hate myself even if they did not hate me. No, no, no! I could never do that!"
"Fouchette, you are an angel!"
The religieuse slipped to the floor at the girl's side, and covered the small hands with kisses. She felt the insignificance of her own worldly trials.
"I am not worthy to sit in your presence, Fouchette," she faltered.