I passed into the little chamber and was making my apologies to the poor child, when, in spite of her mother's warning, I started back, shocked and horror-stricken.
"Good God," I could not help crying out, "what has happened to you, my poor child?"
She smiled faintly, and then a tear rolled down the leprous cheek. Ay! indeed! my poor little Madonna, my little child, whose beauty was such a dream of Paradise, was changed. The large, lustrous eyes were untouched; but the fair cheek was one hideous, leprous sore. The black, glossy hair was now a few dirty wisps. The child, whose face and figure every one turned around to look at a second time, was now a revolting mummy, seamed and scarred by some terrible disease. I had presence of mind enough to take up the thin, white hand; she picked the coverlet and said nothing. Her heart was too full of her misery to utter a word. I could only say:—
"My poor child! my poor child!"
I turned to the mother.
"This is too dreadful! What has happened?"
"Dreadful enough, your reverence," she cried; "but welcome be the will of God!"
"But what has happened?" I cried.
Then I thought it would be a relief to the poor child's feelings to tell me her own sad tale, so I said:—
"Never mind! Alice will tell me all herself. Now, my child, tell me all."