“Yes,” I answered; “I understand you perfectly."’

“We have had the fever in Ville-en-bois for some weeks,” he went on; “it is now bad, very bad.  Yesterday I went to Noireau to seek a doctor, but I could only hear of one, who is in Paris at present, and cannot come immediately.  When you prayed me for succor last night, I did not know what to do.  I could not leave you by the way-side, with the night coming on, and I could not take you to my own house.  At present we have made my house into a hospital for the sick.  My people bring their sick to me, and we do our best, and put our trust in God.  I said to myself and to Jean, ’We cannot receive these children into the presbytery, lest they should take the fever.’  But this little house has been kept free from all infection, and you would be safe here for one night, so I hoped.  The mignonne must have caught the fever some days ago.  There is no blame, therefore, resting upon me, you understand.  Now I must carry her into my little hospital.  But you, madame, what am I to do with you?  Do you wish to go on to Granville, and leave the mignonne with me?  We will take care of her as a little angel of God.  What shall I do with you, my child?”

“Monsieur,” I exclaimed, speaking so eagerly that I could scarcely bring my sentences into any kind of order, “take me into your hospital too.  Let me take care of Minima and your other sick people.  I am very strong, and in good health; I am never ill, never, never.  I will do all you say to me.  Let me stay, dear monsieur.”

“But your husband, your friends—­” he said.

“I have no friends,” I interrupted, “and my husband does not love me.  If I have the fever, and die—­good! very good!  I am not wicked; I am a Christian, I hope.  Only let me stay with Minima, and do all I can in the hospital.”

He stood looking at me scrutinizingly, trying to read, I fancied, if there were any sign of wickedness in my face.  I felt it flush, but I would not let my eyes sink before his.  I think he saw in them, in my steadfast, tearful eyes, that I might be unfortunate, but that I was not wicked.  A pleasant gleam came across his features.

“Be content, my child,” he said, “you shall stay with us.”

I felt a sudden sense of contentment take possession of me; for here was work for me to do, as well as a refuge.  Neither should I be compelled to leave Minima.  I wrapped her up warmly in the blankets, and Monsieur Laurentie lifted her carefully and tenderly from the low bed.  He told me to accompany him, and we crossed the court, and entered the house by the door I had seen the night before.  A staircase of red quarries led up to the second story, and the first door we came to was a long, low room, with a quarried floor, which had been turned into a hastily-fitted-up fever-ward for women and children.  There were already nine beds in it, of different sizes, brought with the patients who now occupied them.  But one of these was empty.