The window stood wide open,
letting in the night scents of the flowers in the garden
below; she could see a space of dark, star-lit sky; and hear
the rustling of the trees, the whispering of the breeze among
the vine-leaves that clustered about the window. Her eyes
wandered round with vague bewilderment, the flickering light
and long shadows only seeming to confuse her more, as she
tried to reconcile her broken, shadowy memories with the
present realities, which seemed more dreamlike still.
The door opened, and Jeanne-Marie came in, holding another
candle, which she shaded with her hand, as she stood by the
bed for a moment, looking down upon Madelon.
"You are better," she said at last, setting down the candle on
the table behind her, and smoothing the pillow and coverlet.
Her voice was like her face, harsh and melancholy, but with a
tender, pathetic ring in it at times.
"Am I?" said Madelon. "Have I been ill again? Where is Soeur
Lucie? This is not the convent--where am I?"
"You are not at the convent now," answered Jeanne-Marie. "I am
taking care of you, and you must lie very still, and go to
sleep again when you have taken this.
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