wrapped up in her eyes. I felt as though a soft warmth was all round me, and I felt comfortable. She gave me a long kiss on the forehead, then smiled at me and said, "There. You are my beautiful white lily." I thought her so beautiful, and her eyes shone so with several colours in them, that I said to her, "And you, too, mother; you are a lovely flower." She said in an off-hand way, "Yes; but I don't count among the lilies now." Then she said almost roughly, "Don't you love Ismérie any more?" "Yes, mother." "Really. Then what about Colette?" "I love Colette too." "Oh, you love everybody!" she said.

I used to give Colette my arm nearly every day. She never talked to me much, and then only about the other girls. When I sat down next to her she used to look at me queerly. She said she thought I was a queer little thing. One day she asked me if I thought her pretty. Directly she said it, I remembered that Sister Marie-Aimée said that she was as black as a mole. I saw, however, that she had a broad forehead, fine big eyes, and the rest of her face was small and refined. Whenever I looked at her, I didn't quite know why, but I thought of a well, deep and dark, and full of hot water. No, I didn't think her pretty, but I wouldn't tell her so because she was a cripple. I said she would be much prettier if her skin were whiter. Little by little I became her friend. She told me that she hoped to go away and get married like Nina had done. Nina used to come and see us on Sundays with her child. Colette took hold of my arm and said, "You see, I must get married. I must." Then she stretched herself, bending her whole body forward. Sometimes she used to cry, and was in such deep trouble that I could not find anything to say to her. She would look at her poor twisted legs, and groan out, "There would have to be a miracle for me to get away from here."

All of a sudden I got the idea that the Virgin could bring this miracle about. Colette thought it a splendid idea. She was quite surprised that she had never thought of it. It was only fair that she should have legs like the others. She wanted to see about it at once. She explained to me that several girls would be necessary for the nine days' prayer, and said that we must go and purify ourselves at communion, and that during nine days we would pray all the time, so as to get help from Our Lady in heaven. This had to be done in the greatest secrecy. It was arranged that Sophie should be one of us because she was so very good, and Colette said she would talk to some of the big girls who were good, too. Two days afterwards it was all arranged. Colette was to fast during the nine days. On the tenth day, which would be a Sunday, she would go to communion as usual, leaning on her stick and the arm of one of us. Then, when she had taken the holy wafer, she would make a vow to bring up her children in the love of the Virgin, and after that she would rise up straight and would sing the "Te Deum" in her beautiful voice, and we would all sing it with her.

For nine days I prayed more fervently than I had ever prayed before. The ordinary prayers seemed insipid. I recited the Virgin's Litany. I hunted up the most beautiful hymns of praise that I could find, and repeated them without getting tired. "Star of the Morning, make Colette whole." The first time, I remained on my knees for so long that Sister Marie-Aimée scolded me. Nobody noticed the little signs which we made to one another, and the nine days of prayer passed off without any one knowing anything about them.

Colette was very pale when she came to mass. Her cheeks were thinner than ever, and she stood with her eyes cast down. Her eyelids were deep violet. I thought to myself that the end of her martyrdom had come, and I was filled with a deep joy. Quite close to me, the picture of the Virgin in a flowing white robe smiled as it looked at me, and in an outburst of all my faith my thoughts cried out, "Oh, Mirror of Justice, make Colette whole!" My temples were stretched tightly. I was straining every nerve to keep my thoughts from wandering, and I went on saying, "Oh, Mirror of Justice, make Colette whole!" Colette went up to the communion table. Her stick made a little clickety noise on the flagstones. When she was on her knees the girl who had gone up to the table with her came back to us with the stick. She knew that it would be of no further use.

Colette tried to get up, and fell back again on to her knees. Her hand reached out to take her stick, and when she didn't find it by her side, she tried again to raise herself without it. She clung to the Holy Table and caught hold of the arm of one of the Sisters, who was taking communion with her. Then her shoulders rocked and she fell over, pulling the Sister down with her. Two of us rushed forward and dragged poor Colette to her bench. But I was still hoping against hope, and until mass was over I was hoping to hear the Te Deum. As soon as I could, I went back to Colette. The big girls were round her trying to console her, and advising her to give herself to God for ever. She was crying gently, not sobbing. Her head was bent a little forward, and her tears fell on her hands, which were crossed one over the other. I kneeled down in front of her, and when she looked at me, I said:

"Perhaps you can get married even though you are a cripple." Colette's story was soon known to everybody. Everybody felt so sad about it that we stopped playing noisy games. Ismérie thought she was telling me a tremendous piece of news when she told me all about it. Sophie told me that we must submit to the will of Our Lady, because She knew what was necessary for Colette's happiness better than we did.

I should have liked to have known whether Sister Marie-Aimée knew about Colette. I did not see her till the afternoon, when we were out walking. She did not look sad. She looked almost pleased. I had never seen her look so pretty. Her whole face shone. While we were out I noticed that she walked as though something was lifting her up. I never remembered to have seen her walk like that. Her veil fluttered a little at the shoulders, and her stomacher didn't hide all her neck. She paid no attention to us. She was looking at nothing, but she seemed to be seeing something. Every now and then she smiled as though somebody were talking to her from inside.

In the evening after dinner I found her sitting on the old bench under the big linden tree. M. le Curé was sitting next to her with his back against the tree. They looked serious. I thought they were talking about Colette, and I remained standing some distance from them. Sister Marie-Aimée was saying, as though she were answering a question, "Yes, when I was fifteen." M. le Curé said, "You had no vocation at fifteen." I didn't hear what Sister Marie-Aimée answered, but M. le Curé went on, "Or, rather, at fifteen you had every possible vocation. A kind word, or a little indifference would be enough to change your whole life." He said nothing for a moment, and then, in a lower tone, he said, "Your parents were very much to blame." Sister Marie-Aimée answered, "I regret nothing." They remained for a long time without saying a word. Then Sister Marie-Aimée raised one finger as though she were impressing something on him, and said, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always." M. le Curé stretched his hand out a little way, laughed, and repeated, "Everywhere, in spite of all and always."

The goodnight bell sounded all of a sudden, and M. le Curé went off, down the avenue of linden trees. For a long time afterwards I used to repeat the words I had heard them say, but I could never fit them in to poor Colette's story.

Colette had given up all hopes of a miracle to take her away, and yet she could not make up her mind to remain. When she saw all the girls of her own age go one by one, she began to rebel. She would not go to confession anymore, and she would