strongly suspected to be a part of Rosalie's trousseau for which she had conceived a distaste. However, it was just the thing for a wounded burglar.
When I stirred there came a rustle from the next room, and there in the doorway stood Sœur Anne Marie—and Whistler could never have painted her! She was looking at me with the least bit of a smile on her lips, and there was something about her face that struck me as so familiar that for a moment I was almost startled. She saw the look, I think, for the wonderful eyes gathered me in and put me at my ease again; but I had already found out why her face or her expression—or whatever it was about her—had struck me as so familiar. It was the same look that Edith had—that "Don't be afraid; it's not so bad as you think" look. Mothers have it, I think, for their little boys.
"Rest tranquil, my son!" says she—that's the literal translation, and I don't know of anything that so expresses it.
"I do, ma Mère," I answered. "I was startled when you came in."
"And why should you be startled?"
"I took you for my other best friend. I think that all good women must have the same look. Did Rosalie tell you how I got hurt?"
"Yes. We will talk about that another time. Now try to sleep again; but, first, drink this."
She gave me one of those wonderful slushy combinations that modern doctors laugh at and that the French are so fond of. There must have been something good in it, for I felt better right off.
"Where is Madame Rosalie?" I asked.
