lace still farther away, and will ask no one
again to be my friend, ever till I die!"

Father Antoine was perplexed. All the blood of ancient knighthood which
was in his veins was stirred with chivalrous desire to help Hetty: but,
on the other hand, both as man and as priest, he felt that she had
committed a great wrong, and that he could not even appear to
countenance it. He studied Hetty's face: in spite of its evident marks
of pain, it was as indomitable as rock.

"You have the old Huguenot soul, my daughter," he said. "Antoine Ladeau
knows better than to try to cause you to swerve from the path you have
chosen. But the good God can give you light: it may be that he has
directed you here to find it in his true Church. Be sure that your
father was a good Catholic at heart."

"Oh, no! he wasn't," exclaimed Hetty, impetuously. "There was nothing he
disliked so much as a Catholic. He always said you were the only
Catholic he ever saw that he could trust."

Father Antoine's rosy face turned rosier. He was not used among his
docile Canadians to any such speech as this. The unvarnished fashions of
New England honesty grated on his ear.

"It is not well for men of one religion to rail at the men of another,"
he said gravely. "I doubt not, there are those whom the Lord loves in
all religions; but there is but one true Church."

"Forgive me," said Hetty, in a meeker tone. "I did not mean to be rude:
but I thought I ought not to let you have such a mistaken idea about
father. Oh, please, be my friend, Father Antoine!"

Father Antoine was silent for a time. Never had he been so sorely
perplexed. The priest and the man were arrayed against each other.

Presently he said:

"What is it that you would have me do, my daughter? I do not see that
there is any thing; since you have so firm a will and acknowledge not
the Church."

"Oh!" said Hetty, perceiving that he relented, "there is not any thing
that I want you to do, exactly. I only want to feel that there is one
person who knows all about me, and will keep my secret, and is willing
to be my friend. I shall not want any help about any thing, unless it is
to get work; but I suppose they always want nurses here. There will be
plenty to do."

"Daughter, I will keep your secret," said Father Antoine, solemnly:
"about that you need have had no fear. No man of my race has ever
betrayed a trust; and I will be your friend, if you need aught that I
can do, while you choose to