s."

"Nineteen years!"

The bishop sighed deeply, and shut the door, which had been left wide
open.

Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.

"Mme Magloire," said the bishop, "put this plate as near the fire as
you can." Then turning toward his guest he added: "The night wind is
raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur."

Every time he said the word _monsieur_ with his gentle, solemn and
heartily hospitable voice, the man's countenance lighted up.
_Monsieur_ to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst
at sea.

"The lamp," said the bishop, "gives a very poor light."

Mme. Magloire understood him, and, going to his bedchamber, took from
the mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles and placed
them on the table.

"M. le Cure," said the man, you are good; "you don't despise me. You
take me into your house; you light your candles for me, and I haven't
hid from you where I come from, and how miserable I am."

The bishop touched his hand gently and said: "You need not tell me who
you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Christ. It does not
ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether he has an affliction.
You are suffering; you are hungry and thirsty; be welcome. And do not
thank me; do not tell me that I take you into my house. This is the
home of no man except him who needs an asylum. I tell you, who are a
traveller, that you are more at home here than I; whatever is here is
yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told
me, I knew it."

The man opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Really? You knew my name?"

"Yes," answered the bishop, "your name is my brother."

"Stop, stop, M. le Cure," exclaimed the man, "I was famished when I
came in, but you are so kind that now I don't know what I am; that is
all gone."

The bishop looked at him again and said:

"You have seen much suffering?"

"Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank you sleep on, the
heat, the cold, the galley's screw, the lash, the double chain for
nothing, the dungeon for a word--even when sick in bed, the chain. The
dogs, the dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am forty-six, and
now a yellow passport. That is all."

"Yes," answered the bishop, "you have left a place of suffering. But
listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant
sinner than over the white robes of a hundred good men. If you are
leaving that sorrowful plac