one for M'sieu' Roussillon; it
came by the boat too. I go to give it to Madame Roussillon."

Rene de Ronville was a dark, weather-stained young fellow, neither tall
nor short, wearing buckskin moccasins, trousers and tunic. His eyes
were dark brown, keen, quick-moving, set well under heavy brows. A
razor had probably never touched his face, and his thin, curly beard
crinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin, while his moustaches
sprang out quite fiercely above his full-lipped, almost sensual mouth.
He looked wiry and active, a man not to be lightly reckoned with in a
trial of bodily strength and will power.

Father Beret's face and voice changed on the instant. He laughed dryly
and said, with a sly gleam in his eyes:

"You could spend the evening pleasantly with Madame Roussillon and
Jean. Jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow."

Rene brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held it up
before Father Beret's face.

"Maybe you think I haven't any letter for M'sieu' Roussillon," he
blurted; "and maybe you are quite certain that I am not going to the
house to take the letter."

"Monsieur Roussillon is absent, you know," Father Beret suggested. "But
cherry pies are just as good while he's gone as when he's at home, and
I happen to know that there are some particularly delicious ones in the
pantry of Madame Roussillon. Mademoiselle Alice gave me a juicy sample;
but then I dare say you do not care to have your pie served by her
hand. It would interfere with your appetite; eh, my son?"

Rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with his
back to the priest he strode away along the wet path leading to the
Roussillon place.

Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious expression
in which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an elusive twilight.
He took out his letter, but did not glance at it, simply holding it
tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand. Then his old eyes stared
vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is cast back many, many years
into the past. The missive was from beyond the sea--he knew the
handwriting--a waft of the flowers of Avignon seemed to rise out of it,
as if by the pressure of his grasp.

A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a kid
following. He was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats at a lively
trot.

"Bon jour, Pere Beret," he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly on.

"Ah, ah; his mind is busy