treated, in order to return to the stony
bosom of Monk's Acre Abbey.

"I have also received a letter," said Monsieur Boiset; "it seems that
you and I always receive disagreeable letters together. The last were
from the witch-woman Riennes, and these are from your father. He has an
unpleasant way of writing, this father of yours, although he is a good
man, for here he suggests that I am trying to trap you for a
son-in-law, wherein I see the fat finger of that witch Riennes, who has
so great a passion for the anonymous epistle. Well, if he had said that
I wished to trap you for a son, he would have shot nearer to the
bulls'-eye, but for a son-in-law, as you know, it is not so. Still, you
must go; indeed, it is time that you went, now that you talk French so
well, and have, I hope, learnt other things also, you to whom the big
world opens. But see, your father talks of your entering the Church.
Tell me, is this so? If so, of course, I shall be happy."

"No," said Godfrey, shaking his head.

"Then," replied the Pasteur, "I may say that I am equally happy. It is
not everyone that has a call for this vocation, and there are more ways
of doing good in the world than from the floor of a pulpit. Myself, I
have wondered sometimes--but let that be; it is the lot of certain of
us, who think in our vanity that we could have done great things, to be
obliged to do the small things, because God has so decreed. To one He
gives the ten talents, to the other only one talent, or even but a
franc. Whatever it be, of it we must make the best, and so long as we
do not bury it, we have done well. I can only say that I have tried to
use my franc, or my fifty centimes, to such advantage as I could, and
hope that in some other place and time I may be entrusted with a larger
sum. Oh! my boy, we are all of us drawn by the horses of Circumstance,
but, as I believe, those horses have a driver who knows whither he is
guiding us."

A few days later Godfrey went. His last midday meal at the Maison
Blanche, before he departed to catch the night train for Paris, was
rather a melancholy function. Madame, who had grown fond of him in her
somewhat frivolous way, openly dropped tears into her soup. Juliette
looked sad and _distraite_, though inwardly supported by the knowledge
that her distant cousin, the notary Jules, was arriving on the morrow
to spend his vacation at the Maison Blanche, so that Godfrey's room
would not be without an occupant. Indeed,