. It was not there when we entered."

"We entered by the vestry door," said Jo.

"Ah, true-true," responded the Cure.

"It comes as it went," said Jo. "You can't account for some things."

The Cure turned and looked at Jo curiously. "Are you then so
superstitious, Jo? Nonsense; it is the work of human hands--very human
hands," he added sadly.

"There is nothing to show," said the Cure, seeing Jo's glance round.

"As you see, M'sieu' le Cure."

"Well, it is a mystery which time no doubt will clear up. Meanwhile, let
us be thankful to God," said the Cure.

They parted, the Cure going through a side-gate into his own garden, Jo
passing out of the churchyard-gate through which Rosalie had gone. He
looked down the road towards the village.

"Well!" said a voice in his ear. Paulette Dubois stood before him.

"It was you, then," he said, with a glowering look. "What did you want
with it?"

"What do you want with the hood in your coat there?" She threw her head
back with a spiteful laugh. "Whose do you think it is?" he said quietly.

"You and the schoolmaster made verses about her once."

"It was Rosalie Evanturel?" he asked, with aggravating composure.

"You have the hood-look at it! You saw her running down the road; I
saw her come, watched her, and saw her go. She is a thief--pretty
Rosalie--thief and postmistress! No doubt she takes letters too."

"The ones you wait for, and that never come--eh?" Her face darkened with
rage and hatred. "I will tell the world she's a thief," she sneered.

"Who will believe you?"

"You will." She was hard and fierce, and looked him in the eyes
squarely. "You'll give evidence quick enough, if I ask you."

"I wouldn't do anything you asked me to-nothing, if it was to save my
life."

"I'll prove her a thief without you. She can't deny it."

"If you try it, I'll--" He stopped, husky and shaking.

"You'll kill me, eh? You killed him, and you didn't hang. Oh no, you
wouldn't kill me, Jo," she added quickly, in a changed voice. "You've
had enough of that kind of thing. If I'd been you, I'd rather have
hung--ah, sure!" She suddenly came close to him. "Do you hate me so bad,
Jo?" she said anxiously. "It's eight years--do you hate me so bad as
then?"

"You keep your tongue off Rosalie Evanturel," he said, and turned on his
heel.

She caught his arm. "We're both bad, Jo. Can't we be friends?" she said
eagerly, her voice shaking.

He did not reply.

"Don't drive a woman to