The old man seemed greatly surprised when he read the name she had written on the table. He reflected a moment, then looked at Sister Anne with renewed interest; but it seemed to her that the expression of his eyes was less gentle, that there was in it a touch of sternness which she could not define.
"And your own name," he said; "can't you write that?"
Sister Anne shook her head, and again wrote the name Frédéric.
The traveller seemed extremely preoccupied all the rest of the day, and whenever his eyes rested on the dumb girl he fell into a profound reverie. For five days, Sister Anne's condition was such that her life was in danger, and the old man did not leave the farm. At the end of that time there was a perceptible improvement; the physician promised that she would recover, but said that she would be very weak for a long time, and that it would be imprudent in the extreme for her to leave the farm before her lying-in.
Sister Anne's eyes filled with tears when she was told of this; she was afraid of being a burden to the kind-hearted folk who had taken her in; but the stranger lost no time in pacifying and consoling her.
"I have provided for everything," he said; "wait here until your health is fully restored, and, if nothing calls you elsewhere, remain permanently with these good people; they love you, and you will be happy here."
But Sister Anne sadly shook her head, and motioned with her hand that she must go a long, long way. The stranger, who had already given twenty-five louis to the villagers for their past and future care of the young woman, put a purse filled with gold in his rescuer's hands. She would fain have refused it, and was sadly at a loss to express her gratitude.
"You owe me nothing, my child," he said; "remember that you saved my life, and that I shall owe you gratitude as long as I live. Take this paper too; my name and address are written on it. If you are ever in difficulty, let me know, and always count on my protection."
Sister Anne took the paper and placed it in the purse he had given her. He, after gazing at her for some moments with evident emotion, kissed her on the forehead, then, tearing himself away from her demonstrations of gratitude, entered his carriage and drove away, leaving at the farm abundant tokens of his generosity.
After he had gone, Sister Anne was melancholy and depressed for a long while. Her heart went out to that stranger; in her mind, his image had taken its place beside Frédéric's; but the loving friendship she felt for the one in no wise impaired her ardent love for the other.