I
have often been struck at the admiration, alike poetical and religious,
with which they inspire you,--you, a poor prisoner so long deprived of
them. Are you not, as I am, struck with the solemn tranquillity of the
hour?"

The Goualeuse made no reply. The cure, regarding her with astonishment,
found she was weeping.

"What ails you, my child?"

"My father, I am unhappy!"

"Unhappy!--you?--still unhappy!"

"I know it is ingratitude to complain of my lot after all that has been
and is done for me; and yet--"

"And yet?"

"Father, I pray of you forgive my sorrows; their expression may offend
my benefactors."

"Listen, Marie. We have often asked you the cause of these sorrows with
which you are depressed, and which excite in your second mother the most
serious uneasiness. You have avoided all reply, and we have respected
your secret whilst we have been afflicted at not being able to solace
your sorrows."

"Alas; good father, I dare not tell you what is passing in my mind. I
have been moved, as you have been, at the sight of this calm and
saddening evening. My heart is sorely afflicted, and I have wept."

"But what ails you, Marie? You know how we love you! Come, tell me all.
You should; for I must tell you that the time is very close at hand when
Madame Georges and M. Rodolph will present you at the baptismal font,
and take upon themselves the engagement before God to protect you all
the days of your life."

"M. Rodolph--he who has saved me?" cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her
hands; "he will deign to give me this new proof of affection! Oh,
indeed, my father, I can no longer conceal from you anything, lest I
should, indeed, deserve to be called and thought an ingrate."

"An ingrate! How?"

"That you may understand me, I must begin and tell you of my first day
at the farm."

"Then let us talk as we walk on."

"You will be indulgent to me, my father? What I shall say may perhaps be
wrong."

"The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of good heart."

"When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, "I knew that,
on arriving here, I should not again leave the farm and Madame Georges,
I believed it was all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness,
and thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Very often when I was alone, and
in spite of myself, I raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there
and thank him. Afterwards--and I was wrong, father--I thought more of
him than God, attributing