With a dignified and careful movement of her head she indicated a very fair little girl. Her cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes were red. Apparently she was giving an account of the drama, which Sister Sainte-Félix had so fortunately interrupted, to an old lady who was listening attentively.
Mlle. Lucy, while she talked with an earnestness appropriate to the subject, kept looking furtively at Hélène and me.
"Dear child," I said to Hélène, "do you trust me?"
"Yes, Maxime, I trust you very much."
"In that case I will tell you what to do. Go very gently behind Mlle. Lucy's chair; take her head in your hands—like this, when she is not looking—and kiss her on both cheeks—like this, with all your might—and then you will see what she will do in her turn."
For a second or two Hélène seemed to hesitate; then she set off at a great rate, fell like a thunder-clap on Mlle. Campbell, but nevertheless gave her the sweetest of surprises. The two young sufferers, at last eternally united, mingled their tears in a touching group, while the respectable old Mrs. Campbell blew her nose with a noise as of a bagpipe.
Hélène came back to me radiant.
"Well, dear," I said, "I hope you're going to eat your bread now."
"Oh, no! I can't, Maxime. I am too much excited, and—besides, I must tell you—to-day a new pupil came and gave us quite a feast of meringues, éclairs, and chocolate-creams, and I am not a bit hungry. And I am in a great difficulty about it, because when we're not hungry we have to put our bread back in the basket, and in my trouble I forgot, and I shall be punished. But, Maxime, as we're crossing the court when you go, I shall try to drop it down the cellar without any one seeing.
"What, little sister!" I said, colouring a little, "you are going to waste that large piece of bread?"