It was impossible to tell from the old woman's face now whether the terrible visitor had left its traces or not; she was so brown and weather worn--her skin so dried and wrinkled--only the eyes were still fine, dark, bright and keen, yet with the soft far-away look too, so beautiful in an old face.
"No, Mademoiselle," Marie replied naively, "that was the curious part of it.

There were some, my neighbour Didier for one, the son of the farmer Larreya----" "Why, Marie, that's _your_ name," interrupted Molly.

"'Marie Larreya,'-- I wrote it down the other day because I thought it such a funny name when grandmother told it me." "Well, well, Molly," said Sylvia, "there are often many people of the same name in a neighbourhood.

Do let Marie tell her own story." "As I was saying," continued Marie, "many people said I had got prettier with being ill.

I can't tell if it was true, but I was thankful not to be marked: you see the illness itself was not so bad with me as the weakness after.