"You see how soundly she is sleeping," resumed the unhappy mother.
"Surely the Blessed Virgin will take pity on her and cure her, won't she, Monsieur l'Abbe?
We only have one day left; still, I don't despair; and I shall again pray all night long without moving from here.

She will be cured to-morrow; we must live till then." Infinite pity was filling the heart of Pierre, who, fearing that he also might weep, now went away.

"Yes, yes, my poor woman, we must hope, still hope," said he, as he left her there among the scattered benches, in that deserted, malodorous hall, so motionless in her painful maternal passion as to hold her own breath, fearful lest the heaving of her bosom should awaken the poor little sufferer.

And in deepest grief, with closed lips, she prayed ardently.
On Pierre returning to Marie's side, the girl inquired of him: "Well, and those roses?
Are there any near here ?" He did not wish to sadden her by telling her what he had seen, so he simply answered: "No, I have searched the lawns; there are none." "How singular!" she rejoined, in a thoughtful way.

"The perfume is both so sweet and penetrating.