's no use; your books
are dull and stupidly heavy. What do I care about something that a
queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago in times of plague and
famine? Saints must have been poky people, and it is poky people who
care to read about them, I think. I like reading about brave, heroic
men and beautiful women, and war and love."

Pere Beret looked away with a curious expression in his face, his eyes
half closed.

"And I'll tell you now, Father Beret," Alice went on after a pause, "no
more claret and pies do you get until I can have my own sort of books
back again to read as I please." She stamped her moccasin-shod foot
with decided energy.

The good priest broke into a hearty laugh, and taking off his cap of
grass-straw mechanically scratched his bald head. He looked at the
tall, strong girl before him for a moment or two, and it would have
been hard for the best physiognomist to decide just how much of
approval and how much of disapproval that look really signified.

Although, as Father Beret had said, the sun's heat was violent, causing
that gentle soul to pass his bundled handkerchief with a wiping
circular motion over his bald and bedewed pate, the wind was momently
freshening, while up from behind the trees on the horizon beyond the
river, a cloud was rising blue-black, tumbled, and grim against the sky.

"Well," said the priest, evidently trying hard to exchange his laugh
for a look of regretful resignation, "you will have your own way, my
child, and--"

"Then you will have pies galore and no end of claret!" she interrupted,
at the same time stepping to the withe-tied and peg-latched gate of the
yard and opening it. "Come in, you dear, good Father, before the rain
shall begin, and sit with me on the gallery" (the creole word for
veranda) "till the storm is over."

Father Beret seemed not loath to enter, albeit he offered a weak
protest against delaying some task he had in hand. Alice reached forth
and pulled him in, then reclosed the queer little gate and pegged it.
She caressingly passed her arm through his and looked into his
weather-stained old face with childlike affection.

There was not a photographer's camera to be had in those days; but what
if a tourist with one in hand could have been there to take a snapshot
at the priest and the maiden as they walked arm in arm to that squat
little veranda! The picture to-day would be worth its weight in a
first-water diamond. It would include the ca