"Angry?—I? Ah, no! no! Don't say so—I am never angry; it would not do for me to be so now."
"But I think you quite a saint to watch me thus."
"You must not say that either."
"You are so good, and I so unworthy."
"Good I may be thought, monsieur; but I shall never be a saint, like Father Vincent de Paul—I am too wicked for that," she added, laughing merrily; "but I try to be as good as I can."
"Have any letters come here for me?"
"Letters!" she said, with alarm in her fine eyes, and withdrawing a pace.
"Yes; I am so anxious for them."
"Ah! now you are beginning to rave again. In your pain and delirium you always raved about letters."
"There are, then, none?" said I, with a groan.