It was a long distance by rail.
Fouchette had never dreamed that a railroad could be so long and that the woods and fields with which her mind had been recently filled could become so monotonous and tedious. Even the towns and villages,—of which she had never heard,—that were interesting at first, soon became stupid and tiresome. She had long ceased to notice them particularly, her mind being naturally filled with thoughts of the place to which she was going, and where her whole future seemed to lay yet undeveloped. She finally fell into a sound sleep.
The next thing she knew was that she was roughly shaken by the shoulder, and a voice cried, somewhat impatiently,—
"Come, come! What a little sleepyhead!"
It was that of a "religieuse," or member of a religious order, and its possessor was a stout, ruddy-faced woman of middle life, garbed in solemn black, against which sombre background the white wings of her homely headpiece and the white apron, over which dangled a cross, looked still more white and glaring than they were.
Another woman in the same glaring uniform, though less robust and quite colorless as to face, stood near by on the station platform.
"Bring her things, sister,—if she has anything."
Following these instructions, the red-faced woman rummaged in the netting overhead with one hand while she pulled Fouchette from her corner with the other.
"Come, petite! Is this all you've got, child?"
"Yes, madame," replied the child, respectfully, but with a sinking heart.