The kind voice faltered a moment; then went quietly on,
“The two young people were in Paris, visiting friends. A great Bazaar was being held for charity, in a certain chapel. They—they went—” the voice broke.
“Oh, madame! I know! I have heard—That terrible fire! So many lives lost—Oh! they were not there?”
Madame bowed her head.
“When the flames broke out, they were near a window. By God’s mercy, he—René—was able to break the window, and thrust my sister out into the street. Another woman, and yet another, he rescued; then—the crowd found him; they clung to him, they dragged him—he fell back—”
Honor covered her face with her hands, shuddering.
Madame Madeleine was silent for a few moments; then she went on.
“It is not to agonize thee, my child, that I tell this sad tale. Listen still! At first, my sister prayed for death, as one prays for the morning. God did not send her that relief. Then she sought the religious life, and found therein a measure of peace. Time and work and prayer scarfed over the wound that never could wholly heal. For some years she continued in this, till the convent was broken up; then she came to me.
“That is the story, my Moriole, of my sister’s life. I do not often speak of it. I tell it to thee, that thou may’st know what real sorrow is, and how it may be borne. Take this knowledge with thee, my child, and may it prove profitable to thee!”
She kissed Honor’s forehead gravely, then made a little gesture of dismissal, and turned to replace the miniature.