The Sister smoothed the coarse pillow, covered her up, and went softly
from the room.
When Jessica awoke the woman was again beside her with a cup of tea, and
some bread-and-butter. But the girl refused to eat.
"I am not hungry. I am not tired now, either, and I will go."
The Sister put her hand on the girl's arm. "Not yet," she said. "Where
have you to go?"
"Nowhere," Jessica answered listlessly.
"Then stay with me," said the woman kindly. "See"--she brought a basket
to the bedside--"here's some work. I will teach you to do this, and we
will live together. Will you not stay?"
Jessica looked at the work, and silently nodded acquiescence. But
nevertheless she sighed. To a nature such as hers freedom was life
itself, and she was bartering it away for mere food. Besides, how could
she now follow the one who had been so kind to her?
But she stayed, and patiently worked all day, striving earnestly to
catch the knack of the needle, and emulating the tireless industry of
the Sister, who worked thus during daylight that she might pursue her
mission of mercy and succour at night. Thus passed some days, and then
Jessica's blood grew restless; the narrow room seemed to her stifling
and unendurable, and she pined for the open air, as a caged blackbird
longs for its native woods.
The longing grew so irresistible that at last she succumbed to it; and
one day, finding herself alone, she threw down the piece of work on
which she was employed, and rising, snatched up her weather-stained hat.
"I can't stay," she sobbed; "I can't breathe here! I must go, or I shall
die. I'll leave before she comes back. Oh! I wish she had not been so
kind to me. I feel a worthless, miserable, ungrateful creature!"
Then she stole down the stairs, very much as she had slipped away from
Adrien's residence, and gained the streets anew.