horror. But she went on.

"They have no vineyards," she said to herself. "No trees and flowers—it is all dreadful—there is nothing. They need help more than the others. To let them suffer so, and not to give them charity, would be a great crime."

She was so full of grief and excitement that she had ceased to notice how everyone looked at her—she saw only the wretchedness, and dirt and misery. She did not know, poor child! that she was surrounded by danger—that she was not only in the midst of misery, but of dishonesty and crime. She had even forgotten her timidity—that it was growing late, and that she was far from home, and would not know how to return—she did not realize that she had walked so far that she was almost exhausted with fatigue.

She had brought with her all the money she possessed. If she could not sell the jewels she could, at least, give something to someone in want. But she did not know to whom she must give first. When she had lived with her Aunt Clotilde it had been their habit to visit the peasants in their houses. Must she enter one of these houses—these dreadful places with the dark passages, from which she heard many times riotous voices, and even cries, issuing?

"But those who do good must feel no fear," she thought. "It is only to have courage." At length something happened which caused her to pause before one of those places. She heard sounds of pitiful moans and sobbing from something crouched upon the broken steps. It seemed like a heap of rags, but as she drew near she saw by the light of the street lamp opposite that it was a woman with her head in her knees, and a wretched child on each side of her. The children were shivering with cold and making low cries as if they were frightened.

Elizabeth stopped and then ascended the steps.

"Why is it that you cry?" she asked gently. "Tell me."

The woman did not answer at first, but when Elizabeth spoke again she lifted her head, and as soon as she saw the slender figure in its velvet and furs, and the pale, refined little face, she gave a great start.

"Lord have mercy on yez!" she said in a hoarse voice which sounded almost terrified. "Who are yez, an' what bees ye dow' in a place the loike o' this?"

"I came," said Elizabeth, "to see those who are poor. I wish to help them. I have great sorrow for them. It is right that the rich should help those who want. Tell me why you cry, and why your little children sit in the cold." Everybody had shown surprise to whom Elizabeth had spoken to-night, but no one had stared as this woman did.

"It's no place for the loike o' yez," she said. "An' it black noight, an' men and women wild in the drink; an' Pat Harrigan insoide bloind an' mad in liquor, an' it's turned me an' the children out he has to shlape in the snow—an' not the furst toime either. An' it's starvin' we are—starvin' an' no other," and she dropped her wretched head on her knees and began to moan again, and the children joined her.

[ILLUSTRATION: "WHY IS IT THAT YOU CRY?" SHE ASKED GENTLY.]

"Don't let yez daddy hear yez," she said to them. "Whisht now—it's come out an' kill yez he will."

Elizabeth began to feel tremulous and faint.

"Is it that they have hunger?" she asked.

"Not a bite or sup have they had this day, nor yesterday," was the answer, "The good Saints have pity on us."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "the good Saints have always pity. I will go and get some food—poor little ones."

She had seen a shop only a few yards away—she remembered passing it.
Before the woman could speak again she was gone.

"Yes," she said, "I was sent to them—it is the answer to my prayer—it was not in vain that I asked so long."

When she entered the shop the few people who were in it stopped what they were doing to stare at her as others had done—but she scarcely saw that it was so.

"Give to me a basket," she said to the owner of the place. "Put in it some bread and wine—some of the things which are ready to eat. It is for a poor woman and her little ones who starve."

There was in the shop among others a red-faced woman with a cunning look in her eyes. She sidled out of the place and was waiting for Elizabeth when she came out.

"I'm starvin' too, little lady," she said. "There's many of us that way, an' it's not often them with money care about it. Give me something too," in a wheedling voice.

Elizabeth looked up at her, her pure ignorant eyes full of pity.

"I have great sorrows for you," she said. "Perhaps the poor woman will share her food with you."

"It's the money I need," said the woman.

"I have none left," answered Elizabeth. "I will come again."

"It's now I want it," the woman persisted. Then she looked covetously at Elizabeth's velvet fur-lined and trimmed cloak. "That's a pretty cloak you've on," she said. "You've got another, I daresay."

Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the fastening did not give way as she had thought it would.

"Is it because you are cold that you want it?" said Elizabeth, in her gentle, innocent way, "I will give it to you. Take it."

Had not the holy ones in the legends given their garments to the poor?
Why should she not give her cloak?

In an instant it was unclasped and snatched away, and the woman was gone. She did not even stay long enough to give thanks for the gift, and something in her haste and roughness made Elizabeth wonder and gave her a moment of tremor.

She made her way back to the place where the other woman and her children had been sitting; the cold wind made her shiver, and the basket was very heavy for her slender arm. Her strength seemed to be giving way.

As she turned the corner, a great, fierce gust of wind swept round it, and caught her breath and made her stagger. She thought she was going to fall; indeed, she would have fallen but that one of the tall men who were passing put out his arm and caught her. He was a well dressed man, in a heavy overcoat; he had gloves on. Elizabeth spoke in a faint tone. "I thank you," she began, when the second man uttered a wild exclamation and sprang forward.

"Elizabeth!" he said, "Elizabeth!"

Elizabeth looked up and uttered a cry herself. It was her Uncle Bertrand who stood before her, and his companion, who had saved her from falling, was Dr. Norris.

For a moment it seemed as if they were almost struck dumb with horror; and then her Uncle Bertrand seized her by the arm in such agitation that he scarcely seemed himself—not the light, satirical, jesting Uncle Bertrand she had known at all.

"What does it mean?" he cried. "What are you doing here, in this horrible place alone? Do you know where it is you have come? What have you in your basket? Explain! explain!"

The moment of trial had come, and it seemed even more terrible than the poor child had imagined. The long strain and exertion had been too much for her delicate body. She felt that she could bear no more; the cold seemed to have struck to her very heart. She looked up at Monsieur de Rochemont's pale, excited face, and trembled from head to foot. A strange thought flashed into her mind. Saint Elizabeth, of Thuringia—the cruel Landgrave. Perhaps the Saints would help her, too, since she was trying to do their bidding. Surely, surely it must be so!

"Speak!" repeated Monsieur de Rochemont. "Why is this? The basket—what have you in it?"

"Roses," said