The stranger looked at her in surprise, and a smile of satisfaction lit up her austere features. "Ah, how good it is to hear one's own language like that!" said she. "You are an angel, mademoiselle. Yes, I am quite strong enough, if this good man will lend me his arm to go into the air. That is what I need. This hot building stifled me; I thought the walls were closing in upon me, I felt myself fall, and then—nothing! Did I cry out? where did you come from? how did you find me?"
She had a wild, almost fierce look in her large eyes, and her voice sounded rather too loud to Alide for the sacred edifice.
"Never mind that now, my friend," answered she: "I will tell you all when we get outside. Only now try to walk a step."
They helped her to her feet, and, leaning heavily on the sacristan's arm, she succeeded in reaching the vestry-room. In spite of her weakness, she absolutely refused to take Alide's hand to enable her to walk, but nevertheless begged her to sit with her a little while until she felt able to go into the street again. The window was open, and the fresh air soon revived her. She sat without speaking, drinking in the soft summer breeze, with her eyes fixed upon the sky. Great tears quivered upon her lashes, but did not fall. Alide had never seen anything more beautiful and more melancholy than this strange face. The features were regular in outline, and severe to sternness, and yet the expression was that of a passionate nature, owing to the sensuous effect of heavy eyebrows that met over the nose, the peculiar glance of the eyes, and the bold appearance given to the whole face by the arrangement of the hair, which was parted at the side, overshadowing with its luxuriance the square forehead. If she had not been so sad, Alide would almost have experienced a sensation of fear. As it was, her tender heart was overflowing with a vast pity; she wondered what the stranger's trouble was, and if it could not be alleviated. But no,—those black mourning robes proved too plainly a trouble that could know no compensation on earth. Thank God, she had been spared an affliction like that! If Wolfgang had died,—no, she could not endure the thought. And to think that this morning she had been miserable, because for a single day he had not cherished her with his wonted devotion! Now she was brought in the presence of grief, and what a mockery it made of her imaginary trouble! Who could be gentle enough to one who had suffered as this poor girl? Actuated by a sudden strong impulse of sympathy and tenderness, Alide stood up by the stranger's side, and, bending over her, kissed her forehead. The woman started and looked at her in amazement; the tears that had stood in her eyes gathered and streamed down her pale cheeks.
"You are an angel of heaven!" she cried. "I am not worthy to touch your pure, kind hand, and you do not hesitate to kiss my brow. But do not be afraid," she added, drawing back; "I will not harm you, I will not come near you; but the good God will let me breathe for a little while the atmosphere of one so pure and so gentle, and only He knows how I have suffered." And, once more averting her head, she leaned against the window and looked up at the sky.
Alide was indeed a little frightened, but her compassion overpowered all other feelings, and, advancing again, she said, "Are you not my sister in Christ? You cannot harm me, my poor girl, but I may help you. You have been ill just now, and you must not excite yourself like this. Sit down by my side, and perhaps you will grow calmer."
The woman dropped upon her knees before Alide, buried her head in the young girl's lap, and sobbed aloud. For a long time Alide talked to her as wisely as she knew, about the blessed consolations of a faith that promised everlasting mercy to the repentant sinner. It was not her words, which were the ordinary commonplaces of every priest and parson, but it was the earnest conviction, the simple piety, and, more than all, the unexampled kindness and sympathy, that softened and quieted the poor, fallen creature at her feet. She listened as if in a dream of peace to this gentle young girl, who seemed to her a living saint; but she did not confess herself: she felt that it would have been a wrong to that innocent, candid soul. At last they separated; the stranger insisted that she was quite able to find her way home alone, and she would not hear of Alide's taking a step with her in the street. Again and again she thanked her for her angelic kindness, and kissed reverently and humbly the hand which Alide offered her at parting. "May I ask you one thing more, mademoiselle?" she said, timidly, after taking a last, long look at the noble, delicate face before her. "Your name?"
"Alide Duroc. And yours, that I may pray for you?"
"Lucinda."