"Yes, come, Justine." The voice was subdued, and there was in it what drew the girl swiftly to the side of Mrs. Falchion. She spoke no word, but gently undid the other's hair, and smoothed and brushed it softly.
At last Mrs. Falchion said: "Justine, on Monday we will leave here."
The girl was surprised, but she replied without comment: "Yes, madame; where do we go?"
There was a pause; then: "I do not know. I want to go where I shall get rested. A village in Italy or—" she paused.
"Or France, madame?" Justine was eager.
Mrs. Falchion made a gesture of helplessness. "Yes, France will do. . . . The way around the world is long, and I am tired." Minutes passed, and then she slowly said: "Justine, we will go to-morrow night."
"Yes, madame, to-morrow night—and not next Monday."
There was a strange only half-veiled melancholy in Mrs. Falchion's next words: "Do you think, Justine, that I could be happy anywhere?"
"I think anywhere but here, madame."
Mrs. Falchion rose to a sitting posture, and looked at the girl fixedly, almost fiercely. A crisis was at hand. The pity, gentleness, and honest solicitude of Justine's face conquered her, and her look changed to one of understanding and longing for companionship: sorrow swiftly welded their friendship.