The sick woman shook her head sadly.
"Do you know what I think when I get over my bad humor?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I think that you must hate me for my harshness and injustice toward you. And I deserve it, too."
"Now you are going back to your melancholy thoughts," said the girl reproachfully.
"Admit that I am right. It's only natural, after all. You kill yourself working for me, you feed and nurse me, and I repay you with harsh words only. My death would indeed be a relief to you; and the sooner I am laid in my coffin the better."
"I know you are jesting once more," rejoined Mariette, making an effort to smile, though her heart was full to bursting.
"Well, if I am only jesting, little one, don't look so grieved," returned the old woman, touched by the girl's evident distress. "Now put the milk on the fire, and bandage my arm while waiting for it to boil."
Mariette was as delighted over these orders as though they had been the kindest words in the world. She hastily lighted the fire; cut up their only remaining piece of bread into a dish of milk, placed it on the stove, and returned to the invalid.
In spite of the repugnance which the putrid sore inspired in her, Mariette showed as much patience as dexterity in cleansing and bandaging the mutilated arm; and the young girl's devotion, as well as her noble resignation, touched the woman's heart anew.
"Sisters of Charity are often praised, my dear," she said admiringly, "but none of them deserve half the praise you do."
"But those good sisters devote their time to strangers, godmother," protested the girl modestly, "while you are like a mother to me. I only do my duty, and therefore have no merit."