PAULA (continued 3)

"Oh, indeed, yes," said the poor dying woman, "but please don't take him yet. Leave him with me until the end. He has been my only comfort and the nights are so long."

Louisa, however, did not remain alone any longer, for Teresa and several kind neighbors took their turns night and day to care for the poor invalid. Teresa brought from home pillows and blankets, and had a good hot fire always going in the grate. Dr. Lebon was called immediately, but it was too late; he could only make her last hours more comfortable. A few days later she died in Teresa's arms. A beautiful smile on the yellow wrinkled face gave it a happy expression that had never been seen there before.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A TREASURE RESTORED

Our birthdays generally passed without celebration, either in the form of presents or parties, principally because my father disliked holiday festivities, as they seemed to bring back to him more bitterly the loss of her who could no longer share their joy with him. On New Year's Day, however, he always gave a little gift to each one of us. It was our custom to write him in turn "A Happy New Year" letter.

Louis would always come from school to visit us during his New Year's holidays, and we had quite a number of visitors who bored us dreadfully. For me it was a time of good resolutions, and I would go to Teresa and say invariably as I embraced her, "I wish you a very happy New Year, Teresa. Will you please forgive me for all the trouble I have caused you this past year? And this new year, I am going to be very good." Unfortunately Teresa never saw any change.

As Christmas-time drew near, Paula questioned me as to how we celebrated that day.

"We don't celebrate it," I said.

"Oh, Lisita, is that true? You do nothing special on that day?" questioned my poor cousin surprised.

"No, Christmas with us is not nearly so important as the New Year. Oh, yes; I generally have to put on my Sunday dress, and then I can't play, for Teresa is afraid I'll soil it."

"Oh," said Paula whose great eyes seemed to contemplate an invisible splendor. "In my country we always had a Christmas-tree, and celebrated the birth of the Lord Jesus."

"Tell me about it," I said, "I have heard about these Christmas celebrations, but have never seen any."

"Well," said Paula, "sit down here, close to the fire, and I'll tell you what we did last year. Four of our men went to the mountains and cut down a beautiful pine tree. They had to go up to their waists in snow, and what a job it was to bring it all the way down to Villar. But they were all very strong. My father was one of them. They dragged the tree into the church because there wouldn't have been room for everybody in the little school-house. We all helped to decorate it with gold and silver nuts, and we hung apples and oranges everywhere on its branches. But the beautiful part were the candles. There were hundreds of them in blue, green, red, white and yellow. If you could only have seen how beautiful it was, Lisita, when the candles were lit, especially when they crowned the top of the tree with a lovely white angel. We sang the wonderful Christmas hymns. Then the pastor gave us a fine talk about the Saviour. At the close, each of us children was given an apple, an orange, a little bag of sweets, and a beautiful little book."

"Oh," said I, "how happy I should be if father would let us go to see it all. It must be a beautiful country!"

"It is the most beautiful in the world," Paula assured me, her eyes sparkling.

"We too shall go and live there when we grow up; shall we not, Paula?"

"Yes, indeed, Lisita."

"You know, Paula, father always gives us a New Year's present," as I saw tears come into Paula's eyes as she thought of her old home. "What would you like to have if you could choose?"

"There's just one thing I want," said Paula, "and that's my little Bible."

"But that wouldn't be a present," I said.

"No, but it would give me more pleasure than any present," sighed Paula.

* * * * *

New Year's Day dawned with splendid weather. It had snowed during the night and the whole countryside was dressed in white. The sparrows flew back and forth under our windows, seemingly remembering our custom to scatter crumbs for them on such an occasion. Of course, we soon satisfied their hunger.

In the dining-room a huge fire burned, and Teresa with Rosa's help prepared the New Year's breakfast. Paula helped Catalina to dress, for Catalina, contrary to her custom, decided to breakfast with us, although against Teresa's advice, for she feared such early rising would tire her too much for the rest of the day.

"Yes, but I wish to be on hand when father distributes his New Year gifts," our invalid said. So Teresa had to yield.

Our father was late in coming so Paula ran to tell him that breakfast was ready, and soon back she came with her hand in his, with that affecting grace that was so habitual to her.

When he had received our "Happy New Years" father asked us if we wanted the presents before or after breakfast.

"Before! Before!" we all cried.

"Very well," he said, "I have tried to satisfy everybody's taste, so I trust everybody will be contented. Here, Paula, this little package is for you. Catalina assured me that this would give you more pleasure than anything else."

Paula took the package and turned it over and over.

"It is a book," she said in a voice that was none too steady.

"Do you think so?" said Catalina with a smile. "In that case hurry up, and show us."

"Hurry up," cried Louis, handing her his jack-knife. "Cut the string and open the package. We want to see what it is."

She obeyed, a bit confused to see all eyes fixed upon her. Inside she found a little black book with a much-used cover.

She raised her eyes in gratitude to father and tried to thank him, but could not find a word to say. Eagerly her fingers turned the precious pages. Suddenly out fell a five-franc-piece.

"There, there," said my father, as she tried to express her thanks, "I am more than satisfied, if I have made you happy."

"Happy!" said Paula, "I am more than happy!" She took her beloved Book, and as she turned its pages she found still other treasures—a few faded flowers which to my mind appeared to have no value whatsoever, and yet I could see that they seemed to call up once more the precious memories of her past life in that far-off Waldensian Valley.

"Dear uncle," said Paula, "Did you read the Book?"

"Yes, I read part of it, but if I have returned it to you today, it is not because I have finished reading it, nor is it because Catalina has begged me to return it to you. It is because you have obliged me to read another book."

"I, uncle? What book can that be?"

"Yes, it may seem strange to you, but you see, you have lived among us in such a way that I am to confess that I wish that my three daughters would imitate your manner of living. You have made me comprehend the love that your Bible speaks of, and of which Christ gave us an example, and which He apparently has put into your life, and so I give back your Bible to you with all my heart."

One can imagine our feelings as we listened to this strange discourse from the lips of him who only a short time before had been so opposed to such things!

"And then, Paula, I have something more to say," said my father. "Do you remember the day when I hit you on the head with your Bible as I took it away from you? I wish to say that I am sorry beyond expression for what I did that day;—and now have you pardoned me, little daughter?"

For reply Paula took my father's hands in hers, then in a flood of generosity and forgetfulness of self she gave her Bible back to him, simply saying, "I give it back to you, dearest uncle!"

"You give it back to me!" said my father, stupefied, "You give me back the Bible you loved so much!" "Yes," answered Paula, "because Teresa has promised to give me another."

"But do you mean to tell me that you would care for a new Bible as much as this one?"

"Oh, no," she said, "Father gave me that one, and it's full of his markings, and it was in that Bible that I learned to love the Lord Jesus."

"And then—?"

"Well, it's because it is the most precious thing that I have in all the world that I give it to you. Because you see I love you so, and I would wish … Oh, how I do wish that you could learn to know Him too."

"My poor dear child," said my father, "I cannot accept your sacrifice, but I shall always remember your thought of me; and in the meantime, if you like, we can go and buy another Bible like yours that I, too, may read it. How will that do?" At this Paula clapped her hands in delight, as she said, "Indeed, that will be wonderful!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE SCHOOL-TEACHER AND HER BROTHER

"Lisita," said Paula to me one day on returning from school, "Mlle. Virtud was not in class this morning."

"That's all the same to me," I said with indifference, "except that if I had known that, I would have gone to school anyway in spite of my chilblains."

"Do they still hurt you so badly," Paula asked.

"Yes, quite a bit; but not so badly as yesterday, and it bores me terribly to stay at home alone. You see, Teresa makes me clean the spinach, and Catalina gives me a basketful of stockings to darn, and I think I'd rather go to school, especially if there is anything the matter with the teacher, even though my feet hurt worse than a toothache. Do you ever have chilblains?"

"No, I don't think I ever had them."

"Well," I said, "I always seem to be the one that gets something—something that's bad and horrible."

"I think that Mlle. Virtud is sick," continued Paula.

"You're always thinking of that woman. I tell you, it doesn't make any difference to me what happens to her," I said impatiently.

"Oh, Lisita, aren't you ashamed to say such a thing?"

"No," I said, "How do you expect me to like her? No matter what I do in the class she punishes me for the slightest thing; and not only do I suffer in class, but I get twenty-five lines to copy after school, so that I have no time to play with the rest of them. How I do detest that woman!"

"Of whom were you speaking?" asked Teresa, who appeared at that moment.

"Of the school-teacher, Mlle. Virtud."

"I have a good mind to box your ears," cried Teresa indignantly. "You detest such a fine young lady who works in your behalf."

"Oh, Teresa, don't be angry," I said. "You have no idea how she makes me suffer. When you were little you never went to school, so you do not understand. Now, listen—instead of keeping the bad children after school, she sends us all home with twenty to fifty lines to copy, while she goes calmly back to her house. The other teachers keep the bad ones there for ten minutes or so, and that's all there is to it, which is a whole lot more agreeable."

"Mlle. Virtud is absolutely right, for she makes the punishment fit the crime."

"No, it isn't that," I answered in a rage; "It's because she doesn't want to stay in school like the other teachers, the selfish thing! Here I am right now with lines which were given last Monday, and I'm not going to do them. She can say what she pleases!"

Paula, whose tender heart would have loved to have been on my side and also on that of Mlle. Virtud at the same time, suggested that perhaps she had someone who was ill in the house.

"She," I cried, "Mile. Virtud! Who do you think would ever have such a disagreeable thing in the house with them! Besides, she has told us that her family live far away in the country."

"I don't know," said Paula; "but do you remember the day when we saw her carrying flowers back home with her. I dare say it was for somebody."

"Perhaps," I answered indifferently.

That afternoon Teresa permitted me to go to school, and there I found the teacher of the Third Year in charge of our class. She was a beautiful woman with lovely golden hair and blue eyes, and pink-and-white cheeks that reminded one of a wax doll. "Ah," said I to myself, "how I wish I was in the Third Year to have such a beautiful teacher always in front of me!" She read to us and told us stories almost all the afternoon, and never punished anybody, and on coming out of school her two little brothers ran to embrace her affectionately. "Hurry up, dear sister," said one of them, "Mama is waiting for us on the porch."

"My! How beautiful she is," I murmured to myself. "How I do love her! Mlle. Virtud would never be so gentle with her little brothers, if she ever had any." Then suddenly I stopped, for it seemed to me that I heard Paula saying to me sadly, "Are you not ashamed of yourself, Lisita?" And I looked up to see Paula exchanging a few words with a poorly-dressed child just before she joined me. "Lisita, it is true," Paula said, "Mademoiselle Virtud is quite ill; she tried to get up this morning and wasn't able to raise her head. Victoria, the little girl who was speaking to me just now, knows her very well; in fact, she lives in the same courtyard."

"Who is taking care of her?" I said.

"No one, as far as I can find out. Do you think Teresa would let us go to see her?"

"No, I am sure she wouldn't, and for one thing, I'd never go. I haven't done my fifty lines."

"Oh, but see; I'll help you do your fifty lines right now."

"Oh, but that wouldn't be square."

Paula laughed, "You generally haven't such a delicate conscience. You know very well that half of the time Rosa does your lines for you."

"Oh, Paula, I swear to you—"

"No, don't do anything of the kind. It's useless, for I've seen it myself, and I'm sure teacher would say nothing if I were to help you in order that we should both be able to see her. I'm sure she would be so delighted, Lisita. When my father was so ill, all his pupils came to see him, and he was so happy."

"Your father wasn't like Mlle. Virtud though. Never! Never! I'll never go to see her."

"The Lord Jesus said that when we go to see the sick it is as if we visited Him. Wouldn't you care to go for love of Him, Lisita?"

"Well, we'll talk about that tomorrow," I answered, not daring to refuse on such grounds, and not caring to promise anything either.

Teresa gave her permission, and promised herself to visit the sick one at the very first opportunity. Paula wrote exactly half of my fifty lines, and in order to do so she sacrificed her playtime that afternoon because she wrote so slowly. I performed my twenty-five without further murmuring, and, exacting a promise from Paula that she would go in first, I decided to accompany my cousin on her visit to the teacher.

"Take this," Teresa said to us at the last moment. "It's just a little chocolate for the sick one, for there is nothing better to fortify her strength."

"Oh, many thanks," said Paula. "You think of everything. By the way I've got four cents; what do you think we could buy with them?" Teresa reflected a minute. "Get some oranges, and see that they are good and ripe. Don't stay late, for the days are getting short, and it gets terribly cold when the sun goes down."

Paula herself suddenly became very timid as we entered the Rue Blanche and asked a young girl where Mlle. Virtud lived.

"Ah, you are looking for Mademoiselle," said a childish voice.

"It's you, Victoria," Paula cried, "I'm so glad to find you here. Yes, we are looking for Mlle. Virtud."

"Come along, then," said Victoria as she blew on her hands that were purple with the cold, "I'll take you to her door." She took us up four flights of stairs when at last we came to Mlle Virtud's apartment. "Here you are," said our little guide, and downstairs she went. I started to follow her on down. "Oh, Lisita," cried Paula; "remember your promise."

"Well, why don't you knock?" I said, rather wickedly, as I saw that Paula was having trouble to muster up her courage.

"I don't know what's the matter with me; I can't seem to do it."

In a sudden spirit of mischief I suddenly ran to the door and gave it three tremendous knocks, and then ran into the far comer of the hall.

"Oh, Lisita, how could you," cried poor dismayed Paula.

Pretty soon we heard someone coming slowly to the door, but as if he were dragging something behind him with each step, and then the door opened noiselessly, and there stood a forlorn twisted little figure, a lad of about ten years. As we looked at his face with its halo of golden hair we forgot all about his deformities.

"Have you come to see my sister?" he said.

"Yes," said Paula, "that is, we have come to see Mademoiselle Virtud."

"She is very, very sick," he said, and we saw that it was with difficulty that he restrained his tears. As he opened the door a bit wider to let us in, we saw that a black shawl had been placed over the only window in the room, so that it was extremely difficult after the door was closed for our unaccustomed eyes to see anything in the room.

"Elena," called the boy softly; "here are some visitors to see you."

"For me?" said a voice from the darkness—a voice which we recognized at once.

"Well, then, Gabriel, please take the shawl from the window; they will find it too dark here."

"But Elena, the light will make your head ache."

"No, no, dear; it's alright now I've slept a bit, and I feel better."

Presently the shawl came down from the window, allowing us to see the form of poor Mlle. Virtud on the bed.

"Oh," she said, "so it's you! It's very kind of you, dear children, to come and see me!"

We stood near the door transfixed as we looked on the face of our poor sick teacher and we saw what a terrible change a few days had made. The little boy came and stood near his elder sister with a mixed air of concern and deep affection.

"And how is everybody at the school?" asked the invalid. And Paula told her a bit about the small happenings in the class.

"And so Mademoiselle Virginia has taken the class. I am sure you must love her very much."

"Not as much as we do you, dear teacher," said Paula.

"Oh, Paula, you just say that to make me feel good; do you not?" and poor Mlle. Virtud looked from one to the other of us a bit sadly I thought.

At this, Paula came over to the bed and placed her warm hand on the thin cheek of the sick one, as she said, "No, Mademoiselle; it is because it is true, that I said it You are our dear teacher, and we know that you have sacrificed so much and worked so hard to give us knowledge, and so that is why we love you."

"I did my fifty lines!" I burst out, "that is to say, Paula did twenty-five, and I did the rest."

"What's that you say?" and a smile of amusement passed over the thin features of the teacher, and yet a certain tender look came into her eyes as she said, "You poor little thing! I'd forgotten all about it!"

"Gabriel," she said, turning to the boy who had been examining us minutely, "these are the young ladies who have been sending you such beautiful flowers. You see, he loves flowers so!" explained Mademoiselle. "Poor child, he cannot walk, and so he has to stay here in this stuffy room all day long. Before I was ill, I was able to take him out in his little carriage, and sometimes we would go as far as the open fields where he could see all the flowers he wanted to, to his heart's desire, but now that I'm confined to my bed with this heart-attack, those little excursions have become impossible."

"Are you very sick, Mademoiselle?" Paula asked.

"Oh, I feel very much better today. I have suffered greatly. I must get better quickly. Madame Boudre, the principal, wrote me yesterday that she hoped I would be back very soon in my place in the class. Madame Boudre doesn't care to have sick people," and our teacher looked toward the window with its little white curtains and sighed deeply. Gabriel came near the bed, "Don't worry about that, sister; when I get big I will work for you and become rich, and then you won't need to go to school at all."

How many things I was discovering, I who thought that the life of the school-teacher was a bed of roses.

"No, never any more," continued the little boy, "I know why you're sick. It's because the school-children trouble you, and as you told me it gave you so much pain to punish them, but when I get big you shall see, as I said before."

Mlle. Virtud looked at the little face with its great earnest eyes.

"I'm afraid you will have to wait a long, long time," she said tenderly, "I don't think I ever told you young ladies that I had a little brother at home. He is the youngest of our family, and I am the oldest."

"How is it that Gabriel is not at home with his parents?" questioned Paula.

"Because, you see, he needed certain special treatment which my parents could not give him in the small village where we live; but here in Rouen there are fine doctors and big hospitals. Of course, I doubt if he can be restored completely, but we are doing all we can. That is my one consolation. I didn't expect that he would be with me so long a time. The first time Gabriel came to Rouen, he went into the big hospital 'Hotel-de-Dieu' but, after staying there for many months, his hip seemed to be no better, and they could not keep him any longer and then he stayed with me here so that I could take him to the doctor once in a while."

"You'll tire yourself, Mademoiselle, talking to us," broke in Paula, who had learned this much, taking care of Catalina.

"Do you think so," said Mademoiselle, "I know I'm not very well yet, but it isn't very often that I have the pleasure of a visit from my pupils, and so I'm profiting by it. You see, I took Gabriel home once, but when I started to return, the poor boy begged so hard to come back with me that finally my parents agreed; so he's been with me now for several years. We are very happy, are we not, Gabriel? You see, when I'm in school he's able to tidy up the house and wash the dishes. What would I do without my little Gabriel?" she said, as she playfully pulled the little boy's hair.

"And I," said Gabriel, "What would I do without you? In fact, what would everybody do around this whole court without you? Wasn't it you who—"

"There, that will do," said Mlle. Virtud. "You mustn't tell all the family secrets. We are here in this world to help others; are we not, Lisita?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered, and I was filled with fear that there might be another sermon coming. However, Mlle. Virtud began to tell us of the rest of the family and of the little village to which they returned at vacation time; and one could see that her heart was there with her loved ones. During the next few minutes there was quite a silence, and I began to shiver with cold, and we noticed that there was no fire in the grate.

"How pale you are," said Mademoiselle; "Are you cold?"

"Yes, a little, Mademoiselle," I said, quite ashamed for my discomfort to be discovered.

"Poor little girl," she said. Taking my two hands in her two hot ones that were burning with fever, "You had better not stay here any longer as you are not accustomed to the cold. Our neighbor made a little fire in the grate this morning to cook the breakfast with, but it's gone out."

Was it this little touch of tenderness on the part of Mademoiselle, or remorse for all the wicked feelings I had so long held against my teacher? Anyway, a flood of tears came as I kneeled beside the bed and hid my face on the white cover. "Oh, Mademoiselle … forgive me," I murmured between by sobs.

All my pride had broken and I saw myself for what I was, guilty, unjust and cruel toward this young woman whom I had accused of living solely for herself. I felt a hand passing slowly over my head.

"I forgive you with all my heart, poor child," and the invalid's voice was both sincere and kindly, and I rose and embraced her with a repentant heart, and with a hearty kiss I buried our old war then and there, and in that cold room I felt the warmth of the beginning of a new life for me although at that time I could not have analyzed it. Suddenly we heard a knock on the door.

"Ah, that will be Madame Bertin," said Gabriel, as he hitched himself to the door and opened it, revealing a gray-haired woman who came in on tiptoe.

"Ah, you have visitors, Mademoiselle," as she stopped a moment near the door.

"Only two of my pupils who have come to see me. Come in, come in, it's all right," insisted our teacher.

"Ah," said the new arrival with great interest, "so you are my Victoria's schoolmates. How proud you ought to be to have such a wonderful teacher!" Here she advanced to the bed. "Well, I declare," she said, "you have no more drinking water!" She shook a flask near the bedside, saying, "I will go and fill it and bring back a little something to make a fire with so as to get your tea ready. I'm sure Gabriel must be hungry by this time," and without waiting for a reply the good woman went rapidly down the four flights of stairs. Paula then gave Mademoiselle the small package Teresa had sent, as well as the little bag of oranges.

"See, Gabriel!" said Mademoiselle as she opened the packages with delight, "Oranges!—and chocolate! What a treat! You are very good to remember me in such a lovely way. Please thank your Teresa too."

"She said she was coming to see you," said Paula.

At this the poor young woman looked disturbed. "I'm afraid she'll find things in a very bad state here," and she colored slightly.

But as we started to go away Paula assured her that Teresa wouldn't mind a bit.

"Just a moment," said the invalid; "Would you mind reading me a chapter out of this book? I have not been able to read it today, as my head ached too badly. It's a book that I love very much."

"The Bible!" cried Paula, "Oh, I didn't know that you read it too."

The young lady shook her head sadly, "I used to read it when I was a child, Paula. It was and is the beloved Book of my mother, but for many, many years I never opened it. When your uncle came to inscribe you as a pupil, he told me how much you loved your father's Bible, and that started me thinking of my own, hidden in the bottom of my trunk, and so I began to read many chapters that I remember having read with my mother, and now I believe that Gabriel would never tire if I read it to him all day."

"Tell her to read the story of Jesus healing the sick people," came the eager voice of Gabriel.

Mademoiselle smiled, "Gabriel is right. When people are sick they love to hear of the greatest doctor of all. Read about the ten lepers, Paula."

At this point the old lady returned, and she too stood and listened as Paula began to read the wonderful story.

"And as Jesus came to Jerusalem, He went through Galilee, and entering into a village, behold, ten lepers stood afar off, and cried, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us, and He said to them, Go show yourselves to the priest. And as they went their way, they were healed, and one of them seeing that he was healed, returned and glorified God in a loud voice, and cast himself at the feet of Jesus, giving thanks to Him, and behold, he was a Samaritan. Then said Jesus, Were there not ten healed? Where are the nine? Only this foreigner has returned to give glory to God. And He said to him, Rise, therefore; thy faith hath made thee whole" (Luke 17:11-19). Here Paula stopped, not knowing whether to go on to the end of the chapter.

Mlle. Virtud then dosed her eyes, but one could see she was not sleeping. Paula waited in silence, and so did the old lady as she stood there with her rough, toil-worn hands clasped beneath her apron.

"Read some more," said Gabriel, "No," said Mlle. Virtud. "It's time the children returned, for they must reach home before dark." She drew us to her, giving us both a long embrace. "May God bless you both, by dear young friends! Come back soon to see me." Then Victoria's mother embraced us also, saying at the same time, "I have a poor blind daughter. I would be very grateful if you would stop in to see her the next time and read her the same story you have just read to Mademoiselle."

"I don't know how to read," she continued; "I have such a poor stupid head, and Victoria doesn't seem to have learned to read very well. She can show you where we live—and now, goodbye until the next time."

On our return Teresa prepared supper. She was more hurried than usual because she had to get the week's wash ready for the next day; but she listened with great interest, nevertheless, to the story of our afternoon's visit. "I'm going to see her tomorrow, poor child," she said.

That night Teresa came to tuck us in and kiss us goodnight which was her habit, as she said, to try to take partly the place of our poor dear mother. I whispered in her ear, "Teresa, I've come to love Mademoiselle Virtud."

"Good! good!" exclaimed the old servant; "that's something new indeed! And why has the wind so suddenly changed in her direction?"

"It's because I know her now!" I said.

Teresa seated herself on my bed, and in spite of the cold she talked to me a long time, telling me that my heart's coldness and my selfishness had caused her much grief. I could see how happy I had made her to have confessed my faults and thus show the beginning of a great change. She told me how my mother died with a prayer on her lips for me. Then die spoke of Paula who thought of nothing except making other people happy. "Wouldn't you like to be like Paula?" Teresa questioned me. "Of course, dear Teresa," I said, "but that's impossible, I'm too bad for that."

"Who it is, Lisita, that makes Paula so good?" and Teresa's voice took on a new and most tender note.

"It's the Lord Jesus!" I answered in a low whisper.

"That's well answered, Lisita! And the same Lord Jesus would do the like for you. Let me ask you something. Do you not find me changed—since— since—I began to pray to Him?"

"Yes, Teresa."

"In what way have you noticed the change?"

"Well, for one thing—wash-day doesn't make you irritable, as it used to do," I said.

"That's something, now isn't it? Oh, when one has the peace of God in the heart, anger doesn't have a chance to get inside as it used to do."

I looked at her furtively. By the lamplight I could see in those dark blue eyes such a new, such a tender, confident look, that in spite of the wrinkled cheeks and her white hair I saw a startling likeness to Paula herself. I couldn't explain it at the time, but later I understood—Teresa and Paula were just part of the family of God and it was His likeness of Jesus, His dear Son, I had seen in both of them.

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

SOME YEARS LATER

The years passed swiftly without bringing any great changes in our quiet life. Our grandparents had aged a bit, and Teresa was not quite as active as formerly, while a few wrinkles had gathered on our father's forehead; but all this had come so slowly that the change was hardly noticed.

Rosa, who was now eighteen years old, was studying in the city. She was still the same—studious, faithful and sincere in all that she did. Her quiet reserved manner caused some people to call her proud, but those who knew her better loved her, and knew she could be depended on in time of trouble.

Catalina still suffered somewhat, but now was able to walk around a bit without crutches, and in spite of her delicate health and poor twisted body she had come bravely to take her true place among us as our "big sister," so loving and solicitous for everybody's welfare that she came to be known in the neighborhood as "The little mother."

Paula was now fourteen years of age. In the house, at school, in the village, everywhere, everybody loved her, and I can say with all honesty that never a shadow of envy ever disturbed the tender friendship which had united us to her from the beginning. One could not possibly be jealous of Paula. All that she possessed was ours. Our joys were hers. Our sorrows were her sorrows. She had grown in body and mind, and yet had kept the same characteristics. Always bright and happy and full of fun, she had the same simple, humble ways as when at ten years of age she had come among us. Her special summer delight was to run through the fields, always returning to the house with a big bunch of wild flowers for Catalina. In one thing only she always seemed to fail. Teresa had a fearful task in teaching her to sew and to knit.

"What are you going to do in the future if you don't know how to do these things?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Paula would say sadly, and would take up the work once more with such sweet resignation that Teresa, moved with compassion, would take the work from her hands saying—"There! There! Run outdoors now for a bit of fresh air."

Then away Paula would go into the garden or under the trees that lined the village street. Soon she was back with such a happy smile that Teresa forgave her completely.

Once however Teresa lost all patience with her, exclaiming, as she saw the strange ragged ends she had left in her sewing, "Drop that work, and go where you please; but remember this, never will you be called a 'Dorcas.' Never will you be able to sew and provide garments for the poor. It's not enough to tell them you love them, you must show it by your works—and the best way to do that would be to learn to be useful to them."

Paula sat back stiff and straight in consternation. "Oh, Teresa, I never, never thought of that!" she said in a tone of greatest remorse, "Oh, please let me go on! I will try to do better!"

But Teresa had taken away the work, and was not inclined to be easily persuaded. "No, not now! Another time perhaps you may show what you can do."

Paula therefore had to submit; but that was the last time that Teresa had any reason to complain. That afternoon Paula had gone straight to her room, and I followed soon after to comfort her, but I found her kneeling by her bedside pouring out her heart in true repentance to Him who was ever her unseen Companion. I closed the door gently behind me and stole away.

Later Paula said to me, "Oh, Lisita, I'm surely bad indeed. One thing I've certainly hated to do, and that is to sit down and learn to sew, especially in fine weather like this. I seem to hear a thousand voices that call me out-of-doors. I never could see any earthly reason why I should have to learn how to sew, and so I never even tried to please Teresa in that way. But now she tells me that if I go on like this I shall never be able to sew for the poor. I never thought of that! I wonder what the Lord Jesus must think of me. He gave His life for me, and here I am not willing to learn something that would help me to put clothes on poor folks! Oh, I must! I must learn to sew, no matter what it costs."

That was it—to do something for others, that was the principal thing in all her thoughts.

In school Paula never did win prizes—nor did I. Both of us were generally about on an equal level at the bottom of our class.

About a year after our first visit to Mademoiselle Virtud's house, Madame Boudre had moved us up to the Third Grade. Teresa made a magnificent apple-cake as a sign of her pleasure. My father also showed his great satisfaction, and in fact everybody rejoiced to see that at last we were both making progress. In spite of all, however, there was one great heavy weight on my heart, and I cried myself to sleep that night I think Mlle. Virtud also felt badly that we were leaving her, but she made us promise to come and visit her. "You are no longer my pupils," she said, "but you are still, and will be always, my dear friends."

Gabriel was so glad to see us that it was always a joy to go and play with him on our Thursday half-holidays. Paula always told him Bible stories, for that seemed to be his chief pleasure, and I taught him to read. Victoria's mother used to bring her work over to Mlle. Virtud's room and heard the stories with great delight.

"If I had been able to leave my Victoria in school she would have become as wise and learned as you, Mesdemoiselles," she would say a bit sadly at times. "But there, I can't complain; what would we have done without the money she earns at the factory?"

One afternoon we said good-bye to Gabriel and mounted the stairs to visit the blind girl. Left alone for most of the day, she passed the long hours knitting. She was about the same age as our Catalina, but she appeared to be much older. The first time we had visited her, she had hardly raised her head from her work, and showed but little interest in the stories that her mother had asked us to read to her. It was not so much indifference as an apparent incapacity to comprehend the meaning of what she heard. But on this particular afternoon Paula started singing a hymn. The poor girl suddenly dropped her work in her lap, and listened with rapt attention. When Paula had finished she exclaimed "Oh, mamma! mamma! Tell her to please sing again."

Mme. Bertin could not suppress a cry of delight as she said, "Dear Mademoiselle Paula, please sing another song! Never have I seen my Marguerite so happy." And so Paula sang hymn after hymn. As Paula at last stopped singing, for the time had come to go home, poor Marguerite stretched out her arms as if groping for something.

"Please do not be offended, Mademoiselle Paula," implored Madame Bertin; "she wants you to come nearer that she may feel your face. The blind have no other eyes." Paula kneeled at Marguerite's side and the blind girl passed her hands gently over the upturned face, pausing an instant at the broad forehead, then on over the beautiful arched brows and long eyelashes and the delicately-fashioned nose and lips, that smiled softly as she touched them.

"You have not seen her hair," said the mother, as she guided the girl's hands upward and over the waves of light brown hair that seemed like an aurora fit for such a face, and then finally down the long braids that extended below Paula's waist Then with one of those sudden movements characteristic of the blind, she carried the shining braids to her lips and kissed them as in an ecstasy. Then, just as suddenly, in confusion she dropped them and buried her own face in her hands.

At this Paula sprang to her feet and put her arms about the poor girl, and murmured in her ear, "We do love you so, Marguerite!"

After that visit, little by little Marguerite began to love to hear us speak of the Saviour. Her indifference and sadness disappeared, giving place to a quiet peace and joy that was contagious for all who came in contact with her. Mme. Bertin no longer called her "My poor daughter," only "My Marguerite." For the next two years she became our constant delight. Teresa at times gave us clothes but slightly worn to take to her, which gave us almost as much joy as we carried them to Marguerite as she herself felt on receiving them.

One day Gabriel came running to tell us that Marguerite was quite ill, and we lost no time in going to see her. With painful feelings of presentiment we mounted the steep stairs to her room.

As we entered, Madame Bertin came toward us with her apron to her eyes and Mile. Virtud made signs for us to come over to the bed, as she slightly raised the sick girl's head.

"Dearest Marguerite," said our teacher; "Here are Paula and Lisita."

"May God bless them both," and Marguerite spread out her ams toward us, adding, "Oh, Paula, please sing again, 'There's no night there!'" And Paula sang once more the old hymn.

"In the land of fadeless day Lies the city foursquare; It shall never pass away, And there is no night there.

"God shall wipe away all tears; There's no death, no pain, nor fears; And they count not time by years, For there is no night there.

"Oh, how beautiful!" And it seemed as if the poor blind girl were straining those sightless orbs for a glimpse of the Beautiful City. "Don't cry, mother," she said as she caught a low sob from the other end of the room. "I am so happy now to go to be with Jesus in His City." The poor mother put her face close to her daughter's lips so that she might not lose a word.

"One regret only I have, Mamma," Marguerite said; "and that is, that I have never seen your face. Oh, that I might have seen it just once."

"In Heaven," interrupted our teacher, "your eyes will be open forever."

"Oh, yes," said the dying girl. "There perhaps I will see Mamma and Victoria. Will you please give Victoria a kiss for me when she comes home from the factory tonight Tell her I'm so grateful; she has worked so hard for us!" Then suddenly—"Paula!" she called—"Paula!"

"Here I am, Marguerite," and Paula came closer, taking her hand.

"Ah, you are here. Thanks, dear Paula," she gasped. "Many thanks for telling me about Jesus and His love for me. Sing—"

The sentence was never finished, but Paula's sweet voice rose, as once again she sang the sublime words:

"There is no night there."

"Is she dead?" I said, as we looked down on the still white face.

"Her eyes are open now," said Mlle. Virtud tenderly, "in the City where there is no night!"

CHAPTER TWO

THE BRETON

It was a snowy, blustery day. It is always a source of pleasure to see the drifts beginning to bank against the houses across the street On this afternoon the bushes and roofs were already crowned in white, and all the trees were festooned as if for a holiday. The smaller objects in the garden had disappeared under this grand upholstery of nature, and the rattle of the carts and other ordinary sounds of the village were muffled in the mantle of snow. To be sure Paula dampened my pleasure a bit by reminding me that there were many people who were in great suffering on account of the storm, without proper food, warm clothing, or fire in their houses.

It had been a hard winter. Many of the factories in town had had to discharge their workers on account of lack of orders. Happily, Teresa with Catalina's help had done all she could to aid the poor folks in our neighborhood. Paula had sewed incessantly. Her stitches were pretty uneven and the thread frequently knotted in her nervous hands, but Teresa said that the mistakes she made were more than made up by the love that she put into her work.

I read to Paula while she sewed, and we were certainly happy when at last the mountain of old clothes which had been gathered for the poor had been made over and finally distributed to the needy ones.

I remember especially one poor woman to whom Teresa had sent us with a package of clothes, who received us with tears of gratitude.

And now, as I sat looking out at the gathering drifts, I heard Catalina remark in a relieved tone, "At last that's finished!"

"What's finished?" I asked. "My old dress," she said. "Who would have thought I could do a job like this! But there it is turned and darned and lengthened. Happily, I don't believe that poor Celestina Dubois will be very difficult to please"—and Catalina pulled a comical smile.

As one looked at that peaceful, beautiful face it was hard to realize that it could belong to the poor, miserable, complaining invalid of a short time before!

"What a shame that it's still snowing so hard," she said, "I would have liked to have sent it over to Celestina today. Teresa says the poor woman needs it badly. But I suppose we'll have to wait till morning."

"That won't be at all necessary," said Paula, "We're not afraid of a little snow; are we, Lisita? If you only knew how I love to go out into a snowstorm like this!"

"You must be like the mountain goats of your own country," said Catalina with a laugh. "To think of getting any pleasure in going out in a snowstorm!"

"Oh, no!" said Paula. "The goats don't like the cold."

"Well, I declare!" said Catalina, "I wouldn't have believed that! Well, run and ask permission of Teresa."

And Teresa dressed us up as if we were going on a voyage to the North Pole and gave us a thousand instructions. "Above all things don't 'dilly-dally' on the way," she said. "The Breton was released from jail today, and you may depend on it he will not be in a very good humor. What a shame that Celestina should have such a terrible neighbor. You can never tell what a man like that may do. If my rheumatism would only let me, I would gladly go with you."

"What on earth would we do if we happened to meet the Breton?" I questioned Paula, and terror began to grip my heart as we drew near the drunkard's house.

"Don't you be afraid, Lisita," said Paula, taking my trembling hand in hers.

Celestina received us with exclamations of surprise and delight.

Overcome with emotion, she said, "To think of your coming to see me through all this terrible storm! I never would have expected you on such a day!"

We noticed a shade of sadness in her tone, and Paula questioned her as to the reason.

The old lady shook her head. "No, there's nothing particular," she said; "the Lord seems to heap good things upon me; but at times on nearing the end of the journey the pilgrim gets a bit tired and longs for the blessed final rest." Then she paused and turned to us once more with a smile. "And you, young people, how goes the journey with you?"

"I too find," said Paula gravely, "that at times the way is difficult, but as we put our hand in that of the Lord Jesus, He helps and strengthens us."

The old lady's eyes were full of amusement as she answered, "My, oh, me! You talk as wisely as an old traveler who is about to finish his long journey instead of being still at the bottom of the hill. And your uncle! Has he begun to go with you yet?" "My uncle," and Paula hesitated, "at least he permits us to serve the Lord."

"But he doesn't let you attend church yet?"

"No, but I think he will some day."

"Courage, Paula," said the old woman, "the Lord Jesus has said, 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life!' How happy I shall be when your uncle permits you to attend with us. I know the Lord has saved you and given you eternal life, and He will do exceeding abundantly above all you can ask or think. I've learned to say to Him, 'Thy will be done!' While here on this earth we're all students in His school. Sometimes the hours are long and the bench is hard, but if we are attentive and apt in the learning of our lessons, He is faithful, and oh, so generous in giving us of His good things! Some things He's tried to teach me, but I'm too dull yet to comprehend, but I do know that some day He'll let me see it all quite clearly. For example, it's difficult to understand why He should have given me the Breton and his children for neighbors. Do you know the family?" she asked us.

"Oh, yes, indeed," said I; "I should say we did." This long conversation had made me sleepy, but the mention of the Breton had brought me wide-awake again.

"It I had known," continued the old lady, "that on the other side of the partition I was to hear nothing but quarrels and fightings and cursing, I would never have moved in here, but more that that, not content with disturbing the peace from within his own apartment, he even comes over to my side to torment me here in my small room. The Breton indeed is a terrible man when he's drunk. I have tried to talk to him to see if I could do something to change his evil ways, but so far all my efforts have been useless."

I interrupted her to ask if she knew he had been liberated from the jail that very day.

"Oh, yes," she said; "he made a terrible scene this morning bullying his poor wife around. The poor soul is certainly worthy of our pity. But here I am talking on and on without enquiring once as to Catalina's health."

"It was Catalina herself who sent us with this package for you," said Paula. "For me!" cried the old lady. "What's all this?" and she nervously untied the strings. Then as she saw the good warm dress, her eyes filled with tears. "May the Lord bless the dear girl! He surely must have revealed to her my need!"

"Would you mind, please, putting it on? Catalina wanted us to find out if it fits you," I said.

The good woman nothing loath tried on the dress as she exclaimed, "My, oh me, how handsome I am for once in my life, at least," and a merry twinkle danced in old Celestina's eyes, "I'll have to keep this for Sunday wear only."

"No," said Paula, "Catalina said to be sure to tell you it was for everyday wear, for you see how it keeps out the cold."

"Well, then," said the old lady, "I suppose I must obey orders. But my, how beautiful it is, too beautiful for the likes of me!" And Celestina stroked the lovely cloth with her gnarled and withered fingers. "How very good the dear Lord is! And now if you don't mind, let us pray together here to thank Him for all His mercies." Celestina who could not kneel, placed her hands on our bowed heads, and after a heartfelt prayer of thanks asked the Lord to bless us each one and each member of our family, her neighbors, and lastly herself.

Hardly had she finished when uncertain steps were heard coming down the passage. The door suddenly burst open and a man staggered into the room.

"What's this you're doing?" he shouted.

"We're praying," the old woman answered tranquilly.

"No more praying then! Do you hear me? I forbid you!" he shouted again in such a terrible voice that it was all I could do to keep from screaming with fright "You know very well," said Celestina calmly, "that you cannot prohibit my doing the thing that pleases me in my own house."

"And what pleasure do you get out of praying, tell me, you pious old hypocrite!"

"Well, if you'll sit down calmly in that chair yonder, I'll answer your questions."

"And suppose I don't care to sit down! Do I look as if I were tired?"

"Perhaps not, but when you visit your friends you should try to please them, shouldn't you?"

"What! Do you count me as one of your friends?"

"And why not?"

"This is why!" and the Breton shook his great fist in the old lady's face. "Oh, I'm a bad one I am! I could kill all three of you in a jiffy! Why, I just finished a month in the jail for 'regulating' a fellow-worker at the factory, and I don't mind doing another month for regulating you people!" And the poor fellow's face was more terrible than his words, and I thought our "time had come," as the saying is.

"Now, don't you be afraid," whispered Celestina, as she drew me close; "God is with us; don't forget that!"

"Why do you wish to harm us?" she said aloud, fixing her eyes on the poor drunken brute, in such a calm, loving and compassionate way that it seemed to calm him a bit.

"We've done nothing against you, and I can't for the life of me see how we could have offended you. I am glad they let you go free. Now if you care to accept our hospitality I will make you a cup of coffee. It's not the best quality but you're welcome to what I have."

The Breton looked at the old lady in an astonished sort of way. "You're certainly different from the rest of 'em. Here I threaten to kill you, and you offer me a cup of coffee! That's not what I deserve," and here he broke out laughing immoderately, and sat down by the stove where a fire was briskly burning.

"Well, this is a whole lot better than the prison anyway," said the Breton coolly, as he settled himself to enjoy the warmth.

"I should say so," said Celestina, "and there's no reason for you to go back there either."

"Now none of your sermons, you know, for if you come on with anything like that I'll be leaving at once," and it was clear that the Breton's bad humor was returning.

"Well, that would be to your disadvantage on a cold day like this," said Celestina with a dry little smile.

"That's a fact, that's a fact. Brr! What weather!" and the poor drunkard drew closer to the fire. "Aren't you two afraid to go out in such a snowstorm?" he said, turning to Paula and me.

Celestina answered for us that we lived in the big house at "The Convent," and that we had come to deliver a good warm dress for her to wear. With that the good woman poured out three cups of coffee, which she set before the Breton, Paula and myself. "And where's yours?" said the Breton as he swallowed his coffee in one great gulp.

"Oh, some other time I'll have a cup myself."

"Well, just as you please," said our unwelcome guest. "My! but that warms one up though! My wife never so much as thought to get me a cup of coffee."

"And do you know why?" questioned Celestina severely.

"I suppose you're going to tell me it's because I don't give her enough money; is that it?"

"Precisely! And that's the truth; isn't it?"

"Now none of your sermons, as I told you in the beginning; didn't I? Don't I know? Of course it troubles me to see the children with their pale faces, that used to be so rosy and fat like these two here. By the way what's your names?"

Again Celestina answered for us—"The smaller girl is the daughter of Monsieur Dumas, and the other is her cousin, Mademoiselle Paula Javanel."

"Paula Javanel! Paula Javanel!" repeated the Breton as if trying to remember something. "I think I've heard that name before," and he looked fixedly at Paula for some seconds, and then suddenly he laughed immoderately. "Yes, yes; now I remember! Ha! ha! ha! Now I know! You're the 'Cat Mother'!"

"Cat Mother!" and Celestina looked much puzzled. "What on earth do you mean?" I had completely forgotten the ridiculous nickname that the Breton's son had given her, for the boy had run away from home several years ago.

"They called me that," explained Paula, "because I once saved a cat's life."

But the strong coffee had quite restored the Breton's good humor and he hastened to add, "Yes, she did; but she hasn't told the whole story! She's the only person in the whole village that was ever brave enough to stand up to that big brat of mine. She wrenched the cat out of his hands, and the boy came back to the house, I remember well, with a pair of ears well pulled and the air of a whipped dog."

"But I didn't pull his ears," said Paula, reddening.

"Well, if you didn't, who did, then?"

But Paula shook her head and would say nothing further.

"Well, anyway, I remember that the boy was made fun of by the whole neighborhood, and to revenge himself he gave her 'Cat Mother' for a nickname. He, too, is a bad one like his father. To tell the truth he never obeyed anybody, and dear knows where he is or what he's doing now. At least he's not like you two who came here to learn how to pray with Celestina."

"Paula doesn't need to learn how to pray, Monsieur Breton," said Celestina, "she's known how to pray for years, not only for herself, but also for others."

"For years, you say! And who then taught her to pray?" said the Breton surprised.

"It was my father," said Paula quietly.

"Your father! Well, he wasn't much like me, then; was he!"

"No, he wasn't," and Paula without a sign of either fear or abhorrence looked compassionately at the brutalized face that confronted her.

"And you don't live with him any more?"

"No," said Paula; "father is in heaven."

"And whatever would you do if you had a father like me?" and the poor Breton looked at her keenly.

Paula sat a moment with closed eyes. She recalled the strong noble face and figure of her dear father and asked God to give her a reply to the poor drunkard's question.

"I think," she said at last, "I would ask God Himself to make him a man of God like my father."

"And do you believe He could do it?" The Breton looked very doubtful.

"I'm sure of it!"

"Yes, but you don't know how bad I am."

"Yes, I know," said Paula; "everybody in town knows you're a bad man, but you're no worse than the bandit who was crucified with the Lord Jesus; and yet Christ saved him; didn't He?"

"That's more or less what I am—a bandit, I suppose. I remember that story. When I was a little boy my mother told it to me. I never thought at that time that I'd ever become the thing I am today. What would my poor mother do if she could see what had become of me?"

"Perhaps she'd pray for you," Paula said simply.

"She! Yes, I think she would have prayed for me," he said. "But why talk about my mother! I, who have just come out of prison;—hated, despised, and made a laughingstock by everybody in our neighborhood, even pointed at by the little street-urchins! My children fear me! My poor wife trembles when I appear! Who would ever think of praying for a brute like me?"

"I," said Paula with a voice vibrant with emotion.

"You? Why you scarcely know me!"

"But I do know you, and I've prayed many times for you, Monsieur Breton. Do you think it didn't distress me when they told me you had been put in the prison where people say it's so cold and dark inside, and where many die from the exposure, and what is the greater calamity—die without hope of salvation."

"And so, while I was in prison you prayed for me?"

"Well, from the time I heard about it," said Paula, "I've prayed for you every night, Monsieur Breton."

The poor fellow bowed his head. This young girl, so beautiful, so pure, so innocent, had taken him and his shame, and misery and wickedness, to the throne of Grace in her prayers each night during his recent stay in the jail!

"You! You've been praying for me!" The Breton remained silent, overcome with a greater remorse than he had ever felt in a court of justice.

"If I could believe," he said in a low voice, "that a man like me could really change—but no! That's impossible! It's too late!"

"It's not too late," Celestina said, "God pardons sinners always if they truly repent. Now you listen to what He says: 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.' And here's a bit more, 'Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near; let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God for He will abundantly pardon.' And then St. Paul gives us God's message also with these words:

"For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Saviour; who will have all men to be saved, and to come unto the knowledge of the truth. For there is one God, and one Mediator between God and men, the Man Christ Jesus; who gave Himself a ransom for all" (1 Tim. 2:3-6).

"Do you really believe," said the Breton, as if in a daze, "that there's hope for such as me?"

"Yes, I do, indeed!" And here Celestina quoted,

"The Lord is longsuffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance" (2 Pet 3:9).

But the poor Breton shook his head as if to say, "It's impossible!"

Here Paula broke in, "Ask pardon now, and Jesus will pardon you! Ask it now! Surely you don't want to go on as you have done. The Lord loves you, and is waiting to save you. He shed His blood on Calvary's cross to take away the guilt of your sin. Then also, would it not be wonderful to always have bread in the house—to see that your poor wife no longer fears you, but instead, welcomes your homecoming. Ask Him now, Monsieur Breton, and He'll work the miracle in you just as He did when He made the paralyzed man to walk. You would be so much happier than you are now."

She had drawn very close to him, and now she took his great gnarled hands—those hands that so many times had worn the handcuffs. Taking them in her own beautiful ones, she raised those wonderful eyes to the brutal, bloated face, and said simply, "We will help you, Monsieur Breton!"

"And what are you going to do, Mademoiselle?"

"I don't know yet, but we'll do what we can!"

The poor fellow tried to thank her, but could not utter a word. Something in his throat seemed to be in the way, and in spite of all his efforts at self-control, great tears began to run down his cheeks.

Suddenly he turned exclaiming, "Let me alone! Don't you see you're tearing my very heart out! For thirty long years I've never shed a tear."

Here Celestina quoted Isa. 35:8,9,10: "And a highway shall be there, and a Way; and it shall be called The Way of Holiness; the unclean shall not pass over it, but it shall be for those: the wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. No lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there: and the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."

But the Breton already had turned the door-handle,

"You're surely not going out yet!" said the old lady sadly.

"Celestina, I must go! If I stay one minute more I know I must yield, and I'm not going to do anything foolish. No! No! I've served the devil too long. But look here! If you wish to help me, then you can do one thing anyway. You can pray for me!" Saying this, the poor Breton opened the door and was gone.

CHAPTER THREE

SAVED!

That night on our return we poured into Teresa's sympathetic ears all that had occurred during our eventful visit that afternoon at Celestina's house. Then somewhat later as I was helping her with the dishes in the kitchen, Teresa said, "Do you know, Lisita, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to see the Breton converted and changed by God's power into a decent, respectable man. No one seems to be able to resist Paula when she begins to speak of God's love. She seems truly inspired by His Holy Spirit. Child though she is, she surely is His messenger to all with whom she comes in contact But there's just one thing,"—and Teresa seemed to hesitate to express herself, then finally she continued, "I cannot seem to shake off the feeling that she will not be with us much longer. I believe somehow—I know it sounds absurd in one way, but I have a feeling that God will call her to His side some day soon."

"Oh, Teresa!" I cried, "how can you say such a thing! Why, she's never sick! She's much bigger and stronger and more vigorous than even I am. And besides, I never, never could bear it to have Paula taken from me!"

"Hush! Hush, child! Don't shout that way, Paula will hear you! Besides it's just a foolish idea of mine, maybe. But if God should wish it—But there, as you say, what would we do without the dear girl?"

Later when we were alone in our bedroom I said to Paula in an anxious tone,

"You don't feel sick; do you, Paula?"

She looked at me surprised—"I should say not!" She laughed, "What put such a notion in your head? Do I look as if I was sick?"

I was so relieved! Teresa was quite mistaken!

"No!" continued Paula, "on the contrary, I never felt better in my life. Since I had that little touch of scarletina a while ago I've never had an ache or a pain. In fact, as I look around and see so much sickness and suffering, I long to share my good health with these other less fortunate ones."

And as I looked at her tall well-developed figure outlined against the window, I laughed at my foolish fears. But a few moments later as she kneeled there in the moonlight in her long white night-dress, and as I looked at that pure beautiful face with the eyes closed in prayer, with its frame of glorious hair, I knew that never had I seen anything so lovely as this child companion of mine just budding into womanhood; and the one word "Angel" seemed to express the sum of my thoughts regarding this dear one who had come into my life and who had transformed so many other lives around me.

As she rose at the conclusion of the prayer, finding me still on my feet, she said with surprise in her tone, "Not in bed yet, Lisita?"

"No," I said, confused that she should find me still seated on the edge of my bed, lost in my own reflections.

Paula suddenly went to the window and looked out, "Oh, Lisita!" she exclaimed, "how wonderful! Come and see."

The storm had stopped in the late afternoon, and now the moon shone in all its splendor, touching the snow with silver and making millions of its crystals sparkle like diamonds in the moonlight.

"How white and pure and beautiful everything is!" said Paula. "Do you remember, Lisita, how only yesterday we remarked how squalid and dirty the whole village looked? And now, what a lovely change!" She hesitated a moment, and then continued in her quiet, simple way.

"It's God that has done it! It's quite a bit like when one gives their heart to Jesus Christ. He takes it stained and scarred with sin, and then He makes it white like the snow. Don't you see, Lisita?"

"Yes, I see," I said.

"Do you really see, dear Lisita?" And Paula drew me quite close to her. "Then why don't you give your heart to Him? I do love you so! You see, I don't wish to seem to be any better than you—but when I get thinking of the fact that you never really have given your heart to Him, and if one of us should die—"

I could not bear another word. The very idea of death either for Paula or myself was simply unbearable. "Stop!" I cried, in such a terrible tone that Paula, I could see, was frightened. "You mustn't die! I cannot live, and I won't live without you! I know I'm not good, but if you weren't here to help me what would I do?"

My overwrought nerves, due to the happenings at that afternoon visit at Celestina's, combined with what Teresa had suggested, were too much for me, and here I broke down completely.

"Oh, Lisita!"—there was real consternation in Paula's voice, "I'm so sorry I hurt you! You must get to bed, and don't let's talk any more tonight."

I dreamed of Paula the whole night long. I saw her either dying or dead, or in heaven with the angels; but in the morning all my fears had disappeared and a few days later I even forgot the whole thing.

A week passed, and we had seen nothing of the Breton. Paula mentioned him several times, and I know she was praying for him. Teresa had gone to see Celestina, but she hadn't seen anything of him either. Apparently he had gone out early each day, and had returned very late. He had been the principal subject of our conversation as each night we came together in the big warm kitchen on those long winter evenings. Finally one evening just as we were finishing the dishes, there came two hesitating knocks on the outer door.

"I wonder who can be calling at this hour," said Rosa.

"It sounds like some child that can't knock very well," said Catalina. "Open the door, Lisita!"

Only too glad to abandon my towel, I ran to open the door, but hardly had I done so when I remained petrified and dumb with surprise, hardly able to believe my own eyes. There stood the Breton twisting his battered cap nervously between his bony fingers. The little oil lamp, which we always kept lighted at night in the passageway, illuminated his pale face and gaunt figure.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he finally managed to say, and then he stopped, apparently as embarrassed as I was.

"Who it is?" said Teresa, as she started to come to my rescue.

"It's the Breton," I said.

"Well, tell him to come in," said the old woman kindly.

As timidly as a child the Breton advanced over the threshold a few paces, looking about him in a kind of "lost" way until his eyes encountered Paula, and then he seemed to recover his ease of mind.

"I wish to speak with the Master," he said—directing his words to Teresa.

She led him into the study where my father sat, and left them together and then joined us in the kitchen once more.

"I declare!" said Rosa. "Think of the Breton calling on us! I thought he hated father since that day he discharged him from the factory two or three years ago."

"The Breton knows very well that when your father got rid of him he well deserved it," said Teresa, as she adjusted her spectacles and settled down to her knitting.

My father did not keep him long. From the kitchen we could hear the door open and my father's voice bidding the Breton a kindly "good night" Evidently the interview, although short, had been quite a cordial one.

"Go, tell the Breton to come into the kitchen, Lisita," said Teresa.

I wondered as I saw him enter with such a humble, frank air, and with a new look of peace that seemed almost to beautify the brutalized face.

"Mademoiselle Paula," he said as he stopped in the middle of our kitchen, "I wish to say a word or two."

"To me alone?" said Paula rising.

He hesitated a moment. "No," he said finally, "I think it's better to say it to you before everybody here. Do you remember how you spoke to me on the afternoon of the great snow? I don't remember very well what you said. My head wasn't in very good condition as I'd left my wits behind at the liquor shop. But I know you spoke to me of my mother and you also said that God would change me if I really desired. I didn't dare believe such a thing, Mademoiselle—it seemed just a bit too good to believe. That night I simply couldn't sleep. I seemed to feel my hands in yours and to hear your voice saying, 'I'll do what I can to help you.' At last I couldn't stand it any longer. I got out on the floor and kneeled there before God, and I asked Him to have mercy on me, and change my wicked old heart if it were possible."

Here he stopped to wipe away the great tears that were rolling down his cheeks. Then pretty soon he continued, "God did indeed have mercy on me. I deserved to be refused, but apparently He doesn't treat people as they deserve to be treated, and now, mademoiselle, will you continue to help me as you promised to do?"

"Yes, of course," said Paula; "What can we do for you?"

"Just one thing. Pray for me! That's what I need more than anything else. I want to be faithful to Him and serve Him, but I don't know how to begin, and when one has served the devil as many years as I have it's hard to change masters."

"The Lord Jesus will help you," answered Paula.

"He's already done it, Mademoiselle," said the Breton. "If not, how could I have endured these last days. At first I had a raging thirst for more drink until I nearly went crazy. Then my old companions called me out and urged me to go and drink with them, and I had almost yielded when suddenly I cried to the Lord Jesus to help me, and then a wonderful thing happened! All desire for the drink went away, and I've been free ever since! Then too, I had no work, and my wife taunted me with that, and I wandered up and down looking everywhere for something to do. Unfortunately everybody knew me and knew too much about me, so there was no work for such as me." Then suddenly the poor, thin face was illuminated with a smile as the Breton triumphantly said, "I came to this door tonight as the very last resort, never dreaming that my old master really would employ me, but just see the goodness of God! I can face the world again, for I'm going back to my old bench at the master's factory!"

"My! How glad I am!" exclaimed Paula.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, but I have you to thank for your great kindness to me."

"I," said Paula surprised; "why what have I done?"

"You, Mademoiselle! You made me feel that you really loved me. Also, you persuaded me that God loved me, miserable sinner that I am. But if tonight in this district you find one more honorable man and one criminal less, let us first thank God, and then you, Mademoiselle!"

"Do you own a New Testament?" said Paula as the Breton started to leave.

"A New Testament; what's that?"

"It's a book—a part of the Bible—that tells us about the Lord Jesus, and how He saves us from the guilt and power of sin, and how we can serve Him."

"Well, Mademoiselle," replied the Breton, "if it's a book, it's of no use to me. I don't know how to read!"

Paula looked at him with a mixture of surprise and pity.

"I might have been able to read," continued the poor fellow. "My mother sent me to school, but I scarcely ever actually appeared in the school-room. The streets in those days were too attractive a playground."

"But you could begin to learn even now!"

"No, Mademoiselle," and the Breton shook his head sadly, "It's too late now to get anything of that sort in this dull head."

Paula said nothing more at the time, but I could see that she had something in her mind relative to this new problem.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE YOUNG SCHOOL-MISTRESS

The following day Paula had a word with my father regarding the matter.

"Now don't worry any more about the Breton, Paula," he answered. "He knows enough to do what's necessary to gain his living, and if he wants to work faithfully and not spend all his money on drink, he can do that without knowing how to read. However, if it bothers you because he cannot read, why don't you advise him to go to night-school? I can't imagine what could have happened to him, but he's changed mightily, and for the better. I only hope the change in him will last!"

* * * * *

The days grew longer, the snow disappeared and the trees and fields began to put on their spring clothes. Week by week the Breton's home also began to show a marvelous transformation. The pigs who formerly found the garden a sort of happy rooting-ground now found themselves confronted with a neat fence that resisted all their attacks, and the garden itself with its well-raked beds, showed substantial promise of a harvest of onions, potatoes and cabbage in the near future. Spotless white curtains and shiny panes of window-glass began to show in place of the dirty rags and paper which used to stop part of the winter winds from entering, and the rain which formerly kept merry company with the wind in that unhappy dwelling now found itself completely shut out by shingles on the roof and sidewalk; and a certain air of neatness and order so pervaded the whole place that it became the talk of the little town.

"That's all very well, but it's not going to last long," said some.

"Well, we shall soon see," said others.

The Breton had to stand a good many jests and taunts from his former companions but he took it all without either complaint or abatement of his courage.

"I don't blame you one bit," he said to one of his tormentors, "for I was once exactly the same—only I hope some day you'll be different too. In the meantime, comrade, I'll be praying for you."

"You must admit I'm a changed man, anyway," he said one day to a group who made sport of him.

"That's true, right enough," said one of them.

"Well, who changed me?"

Various opinions were offered to this question.

"Well, I'll tell you!" he thundered, and that stentorian voice which always used to dominate every assembly in which he mingled, held them spellbound!

"It was the Lord Jesus Christ. He died for me—yes, and He died for every one of you. He shed His blood on Calvary's cross to keep every man from hell who surrenders to Him in true repentance. Then He does another thing! His Holy Spirit takes away the bad habits of every man who surrenders to Him. He said once, 'If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed!' Now you look well at me! You know what a terrible temper I had. You've tried your best in these past weeks to make me angry but you haven't succeeded. That's a miracle in itself. You can say what you like to me now but you won't make me lose my temper. That's not to my credit, let me tell you! It's God Himself who's done something that I don't yet clearly understand. The money I earn, I dump it all in the wife's lap, for I know she can handle it better than I can! Then there's another thing! When I get up in the morning now, I ask God to help, and He does it. When I go to bed at night, I pray again. Let me tell you, if I should die I'll go to heaven, and there I'll meet my dear old mother, for it's not what I've done, it's what He's done! It isn't that I'm any better than any of you. No! There isn't one of you as bad as I was," he continued, "but if God was able to change and pardon a beast like me, He can surely do the same with all of you. So what I say is, why don't you all do just the same as I've done? Surrender yourselves into Christ's hands!"

Little by little, seeing it was useless to try to bring the Breton back into his old ways, his tormentors were silenced at least, and a life of new activities commenced for the former drunkard.

"You certainly appear to be quite happy," said Paula, as we passed the Breton's garden one evening where he was whistling merrily at his work.

"I certainly am that," said he, raising his head. "There's just one weight on my heart yet, however."

"And what's that?" Paula's voice was sympathetic.

"It's that I cannot read."

"But I didn't think that that fact interested you very much."

"Yes, I know, Mademoiselle, but I didn't comprehend what I had lost, but now I'd give my left hand if I could only read."

"Poor Breton," I said. It seemed to me we were a bit helpless before such a problem.

"It isn't that I want to become a fine gentleman, and all that"; and the Breton turned to address me also—"It's simply that I want to be able to read the Great Book that tells about God and His Son Jesus Christ. Also I would like to help my children that they might have a better chance than hitherto I have given them. But there you are! I'm just a poor ignorant man, and I suppose I always shall be."

"Well," said Paula, "why don't you attend the night school?"

"No, Mademoiselle," and the Breton shook his head; "that's all very well for the young fellows who have learned a little something and wish to learn a bit more. But me!—at my age!—and I don't even know the letter A from B, and I have such a dull head that I would soon tire out the best of teachers."

"Well, supposing I tried teaching you?" said Paula timidly.

"You, Mademoiselle!" cried the Breton stupefied, "you to try such a thing as to teach me!"

"And why not, if my uncle should let me?"

"Well, Mademoiselle, that would be different. I believe that with you to teach me I might be able to learn," and the Breton leaned on his spade for a moment.

"You are so good and kind and patient, I would not be afraid of your making fun of my stupid efforts. But there, there's no use thinking about such a thing, for I'm sure the master would never permit it."

* * * * *

In fact, it did take a good deal to persuade my father, but Paula won his permission at last.

The Breton came every Saturday night Teresa complained a bit at first, seeing her kitchen turned into a night-school for such a rough ignorant workman, but "for Jesus Christ's sake," as Paula said, she had finally become resigned to it.

It was both pathetic and comical to see the efforts which the poor Breton made as he tried to follow with one great finger the letters which his young teacher pointed out to him. He stumbled on, making many mistakes but never discouraged. Sometimes the sweat poured from him when the task appeared too great for him. At such times he would put his head in his hands for a moment, and then with a great sigh he would start again.

At the end of a month he had learned the alphabet and nothing more, and even then he would make mistakes in naming some of the letters.

"Oh, let him go!" said Teresa; "He's like myself. He'll never, never learn."

But Paula's great eyes opened wide.

"Why! I simply can't abandon him unless he should give it up himself. Besides, have you forgotten, Teresa, what it cost me to learn to sew? But in the end I did learn; didn't I?"

So Teresa was silenced. But once the Breton had conquered this first barrier to learning his progress was truly surprising. In the factory his "primer" was always with him. At lunch hours he would either study alone, or he'd persuade a fellow-worker more advanced than himself to help him with his lesson. Paula was astonished to see how quickly she could teach him a verse in the New Testament or a Waldensian hymn she had learned in the valley back home.

Nevertheless a week or two later she noticed that he seemed to be a bit distraught, and she feared he was getting weary of his task.

"What's the matter?" she finally asked him.

"Oh, nothing," and the Breton grinned rather sheepishly.

"Tell me, Breton, what's on your mind?"

He "guffawed" loudly as he replied. "You'd make fun of me sure, if I told you—and with good reason!"

"I never make fun of anybody," said Paula reproachfully.

"No, Mademoiselle, I ought to know that better than anybody else! Well, perhaps it might be well to tell you. If you must know it, it's this. There are many, I find, that wish they could be in my place tonight"

"In your place tonight! I'm afraid I don't understand," said Paula.

"Well, you see, I've got four or five of my old comrades who also want to learn to read."

"What's that you say?" Teresa said, leaving her knitting to stand in front of the Breton.

"It's true enough, Mademoiselle Teresa, and when you come to think of it, it's not a bit strange. Down at the factory they all know how different and how happy I am. And how they did make fun of me when I started to learn to read; just as they jeered at me when Jesus Christ first saved me and I learned to pray. But now some of them, seeing how happy I am, also want to learn to read, and who knows but some day they will want to know how to pray to the Lord Jesus also."

Paula's face took on a serious expression—finally, however, she slowly shook her head.

"You know, with all my heart, I'd just love to see it done; but it's perfectly useless, I suppose, even to think of it," she said sadly.

"That's what I thought too," said the Breton; "I'm sorry I spoke about it"

"Well, I don't know," continued Paula. "Perhaps if uncle could arrange somehow—I remember when I was quite small, back there before I left the valley, my dear god-mother had a night-school for laboring men. It was just lovely. They learned to read and to write and to calculate. Then afterwards, each night before they went home they would sing hymns and read the Bible and pray."

"Yes, that's all very well," said Teresa, "but your godmother was a whole lot older than you are."

Then turning to the Breton she said, "Why don't you tell your friends to go to the night-school in town?"

"Well," said the Breton, "I know that they learn 'many things there, but they don't teach them about God. However, as I said before, I'm sorry I mentioned the thing. Let's not speak any more about it"

"Well," said Paula, "I know what I'm going to do. I'll speak to the Lord Jesus about it."

And Paula kept her promise.

One morning, Teresa usually not at all inquisitive, could not seem to keep her eyes off a certain little group who were engaged in moving out of one of the "Red Cottages" across the road. More than once she paused in her work of tidying up the house to peer out of one window or another.

"That's the very best of all the 'Red Cottages,' and they're moving out of it" remarked Teresa finally.

"Of what importance is that?" I said to her rather sharply. I was washing windows, and that task always made me irritable.

"I've got a certain idea!" Teresa said.

"Tell me your big idea," I said.

"No! You go ahead and wash your windows. I'll tell you tomorrow."

The next day I had forgotten Teresa and her "idea." As I started for school she called after me, "Tell Mademoiselle Virtud, your teacher, that I want to see her just as soon as possible I have to speak to her about something."

In a flash I remembered what had happened the day before, and I guessed at once her secret.

"Teresa!" I cried, "I've got it now! You want Mademoiselle Virtud to occupy the house across the road. Oh, that'll be just wonderful!"

Teresa tried to put on her most severe air, but failed completely.

"Well, supposing that's not so!" she said, as with a grin she pushed me out of the door.

Mademoiselle Virtud came over that very afternoon. I hadn't been mistaken. She and Teresa went immediately across the road to see the empty house, the owner having left the key with us. At the end of a half-hour they returned.

"It's all arranged," and Teresa beamed. "She's coming to live here right across the road. I've thought of the thing for a long time, and now at last the house I wanted is empty. Monsieur Bouché has promised to fix the fence and put a new coat of paint on the house, and with some of our plants placed in the front garden, it will be a fitting place for your dear teacher and her Gabriel to live in."

"You'll certainly spoil us!" said Mlle. Virtud. "What a joy it will be to leave that stuffy apartment in town. And Gabriel is so pale and weak! This lovely air of the open country will make a new boy of him!"

It was a wonderful time we had, arranging things before our new neighbors moved in. Teresa bought some neat linen curtains for the windows of the little house. Paula and I gathered quantities of flowers from our garden and placed them over the chimney-piece, and on the bedroom shelves and in the window-seats—and how the floors and windows did shine after we had finished polishing them!

When our teacher arrived in a coach with Gabriel packed in among the usual quantity of small household things of all kinds, great was her gratitude and surprise to find, in the transformed house, such signs of our care and affection for her. It was indeed the happiest moving day that could possibly be imagined. There wasn't a great quantity of furniture, and in an hour or so after our new neighbors' arrival we had everything installed in its proper place, to say nothing of the bright fire burning in the tiny grate and the kettle singing merrily above it. One would hardly have dreamed that it had been an empty house that very morning. Even Louis who had come home for a week-end holiday had sailed in and worked with us in putting the little cottage in order.

That night the newly-arrived tenants ate with us, after which Louis carried Gabriel pick-a-back to his new home across the road.

Our teacher's prophecy regarding Gabriel was a correct one. Day by day he grew stronger. Teresa looked out for him during school-hours, and with his bright happy ways he soon became a great favorite with the neighborhood boys.