“You are still ill, my child,” said Sister Genevieve tenderly, stroking Henriette’s, long hair with a gentle, loving touch.
“Certainly you are,” confirmed the Doctor, 92 who was just then on his way to the hospital ward. “Why have you left your bed without my permission?”
“Oh, monsieur!” said the poor girl, turning to the gentle-voiced, pleasant-faced man who spoke so kindly, “have you attended me in my illness? Look––thanks to your care––I have recovered!” she affirmed confidently, though her hectic features and weak motions belied it.
“They left me alone for a few moments, and I arose and dressed myself. Now that you see I am quite well, you will tell them to let me go, will you not?”
The Doctor gazed at her compassionately before answering:
“That is impossible. To release you from this place requires a far greater power than mine.”
“This place?” asked the young girl in surprise. “Why, what is it? Is it not a hospital?”
“A hospital and a prison,” replied the physician gravely.
“A prison!” exclaimed Henriette in terror, striving to remember how she came to be in such a place.
At last the events that preceded her illness 93 gradually came back to her mind, until she understood all.