over now; 't was nothing, and I'm too silly. And, ma'm'selle, here I've gone and cried upon your mother's dress, and that's a pretty business."
I took her hand in mine and pressed it.
"Are n't you afraid you'll stick yourself, ma'm'-selle? I 've got my needle in that hand," she said playfully. "But you did not mean what you said just now, did you?"
"What did I say?"
"That it would be better not to love your children with all your heart, on account of the great anxiety. Don't you know such thoughts are wicked? When they come into your head your mind wants purifying. But I'm sure I beg your pardon for saying so."
"You are entirely right, Louise," I returned.
"Ah! so I thought. And now, let me see. Let's fix this ruche; pull it to the left a little, please."
"But about the sick boy. Tell me about his recovery."
"That was a miracle—I ought to say two miracles. It was a miracle that God restored him to us, and a miracle to find anybody with so much knowledge and feeling,—such talent. Such a tender heart, and so much, so much!—I'm speaking of the doctor. A famous one he was, too, you must know; for it was no less than Doctor Faron. Heaven knows how he is run