Then the arriving train whistled, and she straightened up and her face took on a look of expectancy.
“Not many passengers to-night,” she said to herself, as a few men hurried by with bags and bundles. “They nearly all go to the lower ferry, now.”
In a moment they had all passed, and the event of the evening was over. But no!—and she leaned forward and peered up the street with fresh curiosity. “Why, here come a lady and a little girl and they’re not hurrying at all. She’ll lose the ferry if she doesn’t mind. I wonder what ails her?—she walks as if she couldn’t see.”
Presently the two reached her corner, a lady in mourning, and a little yellow-haired girl carefully holding a small basket in one hand, while she clung to her mother’s gown with the other.
Madame Jozain noticed, before the lady reached her, that she tottered several times, as if about to fall, and put out her hand, as if seeking for some support. She seemed dizzy and confused, and was passing on by the corner, when the child said entreatingly, “Stop here a minute, mama, and rest.”
Then the woman lifted her veil and saw Madame Jozain looking up at her, her soft eyes full of compassion.
“Will you allow me to rest here a moment? I’m ill and a little faint,—perhaps you will give me a glass of water?”
“Why, certainly, my dear,” said madame, getting up alertly, in spite of her lameness. “Come in and sit down in my rocking-chair. You’re too late for the ferry. It’ll be gone before you get there, and you may as well be comfortable while you wait—come right in.”
The exhausted woman entered willingly. The room was neat and cool, and a large white bed, which was beautifully clean, for madame prided herself upon it, looked very inviting.
The mother sank into a chair, and dropped her head on the bed; the child set down the basket and clung to her mother caressingly, while she looked around with timid, anxious eyes.