Elizabeth, "Roses." And then her strength deserted her—she fell upon her knees in the snow—the basket slipped from her arm, and the first thing which fell from it was—no, not roses,—there had been no miracle wrought—not roses, but the case of jewels which she had laid on the top of the other things that it might be the more easily carried.

[ILLUSTRATION: HER STRENGTH DESERTED HER—SHE FELL UPON HER KNEES IN THE SNOW.]

"Roses!" cried Uncle Bertrand. "Is it that the child is mad? They are the jewels of my sister Clotilde."

Elizabeth clasped her hands and leaned towards Dr. Norris, the tears streaming from her uplifted eyes.

"Ah! monsieur," she sobbed, "you will understand. It was for the poor—they suffer so much. If we do not help them our souls will be lost. I did not mean to speak falsely. I thought the Saints—the Saints—-" But her sobs filled her throat, and she could not finish. Dr. Norris stopped, and took her in his strong arms as if she had been a baby.

"Quick!" he said, imperatively; "we must return to the carriage, De
Rochemont. This is a serious matter."

Elizabeth clung to him with trembling hands.

"But the poor woman who starves?" she cried. "The little children—they sit up on the step quite near—the food was for them! I pray you give it to them."

"Yes, they shall have it," said the Doctor. "Take the basket, De
Rochemont—only a few doors below." And it appeared that there was
something in his voice which seemed to render obedience necessary, for
Monsieur de Rochemont actually did as he was told.

For a moment Dr. Norris put Elizabeth on her feet again, but it was only while he removed his overcoat and wrapped it about her slight shivering body.

"You are chilled through, poor child," he said; "and you are not strong enough to walk just now. You must let me carry you."

It was true that a sudden faintness had come upon her, and she could not restrain the shudder which shook her. It still shook her when she was placed in the carriage which the two gentlemen had thought it wiser to leave in one of the more respectable streets when they went to explore the worse ones together.

"What might not have occurred if we had not arrived at that instant!" said Uncle Bertrand when he got into the carriage. "As it is who knows what illness—"

"It will be better to say as little as possible now," said Dr. Norris.

"It was for the poor," said Elizabeth, trembling. "I had prayed to the Saints to tell me what was best I thought I must go. I did not mean to do wrong. It was for the poor."

And while her Uncle Bertrand regarded her with a strangely agitated look, and Dr. Norris held her hand between his strong and warm ones, the tears rolled down her pure, pale little face.

She did not know until some time after what danger she had been in, that the part of the city into which she had wandered was the lowest and worst, and was in some quarters the home of thieves and criminals of every class. As her Uncle Bertrand had said, it was impossible to say what terrible thing might have happened if they had not met her so soon. It was Dr. Norris who explained it all to her as gently and kindly as was possible. She had always been fragile, and she had caught a severe cold which caused her an illness of some weeks. It was Dr. Norris who took care of her, and it was not long before her timidity was forgotten in her tender and trusting affection for him. She learned to watch for his coming, and to feel that she was no longer lonely. It was through him that her uncle permitted her to send to the curé a sum of money large enough to do all that was necessary. It was through him that the poor woman and her children were clothed and fed and protected. When she was well enough, he had promised that she should help him among his own poor. And through him—though she lost none of her sweet sympathy for those who suffered—she learned to live a more natural and child-like life, and to find that there were innocent, natural pleasures to be enjoyed in the world. In time she even ceased to be afraid of her Uncle Bertrand, and to be quite happy in the great beautiful house. And as for Uncle Bertrand himself, he became very fond of her, and sometimes even helped her to dispense her charities. He had a light, gay nature, but he was kind at heart, and always disliked to see or think of suffering. Now and then he would give more lavishly than wisely, and then he would say, with his habitual graceful shrug of the shoulders—"Yes, it appears I am not discreet. Finally, I think I must leave my charities to you, my good Norris—to you and Little Saint Elizabeth."