She had her little winter cloak of frieze and her wooden shoes and her
little white cap with the sunny curls rippling out of it in their pretty
rebellion. She had her little lantern too; and her bundle, and she had
put a few fresh eggs in her basket, with some sweet herbs and the
palm-sheaf that Father Francis had blessed last Easter; for who could
tell, she thought, how ill he might not be, or how poor?
She hardly gave a look to the hut as she ran by its garden gate; all her
heart was on in front, in the vague far-off country where he lay sick
unto death.
She ran fast through the familiar lanes into the city. She was not very
sure where Paris was, but she had the name clear and firm, and she knew
that people were always coming and going thence and thither, so that she
had no fear she should not find it.
She went straight to the big, busy, bewildering place in the Leopold
quarter where the iron horses fumed every day and night along the iron
ways. She had never been there before, but she knew it was by that great
highway that the traffic to Paris was carried on, and she knew that it
would carry people also as well.
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