red
quietly. "I have been a great trouble, I know."

There was none of the old pose in his manner, none of the old cryptic
quality in his words.

"We were anxious for your sake--and for the sake of your friends,
Monsieur."

Charley evaded the suggestion. "I cannot easily repay your kindness and
that of Jo Portugais, my good friend here," he rejoined.

"M'sieu'," replied Jo, his face turned away, and his foot pushing a log
on the fire, "you have repaid it."

Charley shook his head. "I am in a conspiracy of kindness," he said. "It
is all a mystery to me. For why should one expect such treatment from
strangers, when, besides all, one can never make any real return, not
even to pay for board and lodging!"

"'I was a stranger and ye took me in,"' said the Cure, smiling by no
means sentimentally. "So said the Friend of the World."

Charley looked the Curb steadily in the eyes. He was thinking how simply
this man had said these things; as if, indeed, they were part of
his life; as though it were usual speech with him, a something that
belonged, not an acquired language. There was the old impulse to ask a
question, and he put the monocle to his eye, but his lips did not open,
and the eye-glass fell again. He had seen familiarity with sacred names
and things in the uneducated, in excited revivalists, worked up to a
state clairvoyant and conversational with the Creator; but he had never
heard an educated man speak as this man did.

At last Charley said: "Your brother--Portugais tells me that your
brother, the surgeon, has gone away. I should have liked to thank
him--if no more."

"I have written him of your good recovery. He will be glad, I know. But
my brother, from one stand-point--a human stand-point--had scruples.
These I did not share, but they were strong in him, Monsieur. Marcel
asked himself--" He stopped suddenly and looked towards Jo.

Charley saw the look, and said quickly: "Speak plainly. Portugais is my
friend."

Jo turned slowly towards him, and a light seemed to come to his eyes--a
shining something that resolved itself into a dog-like fondness, an
utter obedience, a strange intense gratitude.

"Marcel asked himself," the Cure continued, "whether you would thank him
for bringing you back to--to life and memory. I fear he was trying to
see what I should say--I fear so. Marcel said, 'Suppose that he should
curse me for it? Who knows what he would be brought back to--to what
suffering and pain, perhaps