What matters if I die to-morrow, or
if I linger on until my earthly span is legitimately run out? I am ready
to go home whenever my Father calls me. But it is the children, you
see. I have to think of them. Francois is his mother's only son, the
bread-winner of the household, a good lad and studious too, and Felicite
has always been very delicate. She is blind from birth and..."

"Oh! don't... for pity's sake, don't..." moaned Marguerite in an agony
of helplessness. "I understand... you need not fear for your children,
M. l'Abbe: no harm shall come to them through me."

"It is as the good God wills!" replied the old man quietly.

Then, as Marguerite had once more relapsed into silence, he fumbled
for his beads, and his gentle voice began droning the Paters and Aves
wherein no doubt his childlike heart found peace and solace.

He understood that the poor woman would not wish to speak, he knew as
well as she did the overpowering strength of his helpless appeal. Thus
the minutes sped on, the jailer and the captive, tied to one another by
the strongest bonds that hand of man could forge, had nothing to say
to one another: he, the old priest, imbued with the traditions of his
calling, could pray and resign himself to the will of the Almighty, but
she was young and ardent and passionate, she loved and was beloved,
and an impassable barrier was built up between her and the man she
worshipped!

A barrier fashioned by the weak hands of children, one of whom was
delicate and blind. Outside was air and freedom, reunion with her
husband, an agony of happy remorse, a kiss from his dear lips, and
trembling held her back from it all, because of Francois who was the
bread-winner and of Felicite who was blind.

Mechanically now Marguerite rose again, and like an automaton--lifeless
and thoughtless--she began putting the dingy, squalid room to rights.
The Abbe helped her demolish the improvised screen; with the same gentle
delicacy of thought which had caused him to build it up, he refrained
from speaking to her now: he would not intrude himself on her grief and
her despair.

Later on, she forced herself to speak again, and asked the old man his
name.

"My name is Foucquet," he replied, "Jean Baptiste Marie Foucquet,
late parish priest of the Church of Saint Joseph, the patron saint of
Boulogne."

Foucquet! This was l'Abbe Foucquet! the faithful friend and servant of
the de Marny family.

Marguerite gazed at him with great,