“No, no,” he answered again. “This is far worse than the hospital. How could you be so imprudent?”
“You are going to accept me,” she said, joyfully.
He took her hand and looked into her face.
“Do you know what you are asking? Do you know what you must bear? Have you courage enough, strength enough, devotion enough?” There was a little silence, and then Thérèse looked up and answered, humbly,—
“No. But, monsieur, I will ask for all these; and I think that, perhaps, He who has given me the will will send me what I want.”
After that he could say no more. He may have put up a different prayer for her in his own heart, but of it she knew nothing. He said no more to her; he promised the poor, half-stupefied mother that some one should be sent for the night, and then those two went away together. It was evening now, the sun had set, a golden glimmer just lingered on the plains. Far away, in other parts of bright France, the goats would be trooping home from breezy uplands in tinkling herds, soft sweet breezes tossing the hay, fresh mountain streams gurgling along their rocky beds, dewy grass waving, leaves rustling: here, the hot thirsty air still filled the narrow streets, the summer evening brought no relief from the invisible pestilential cloud that hung and penetrated, and stifled. Together those two went—under the quaint houses, so sadly stricken, along the rough pavement, over which many little feet were never now any more to patter—solemnly and silently, because their hearts were very full, and a great shadow hung over them. They passed under an ancient gateway, crossed a bridge; and, in another few minutes, the two—still silent—went together up a flight of steps, and into the hospital of St. Jean.
Chapter Fifteen.
“They serve God well,
Who serve His creatures.”
The Lady of La Garaye.