ows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the
spot--say, Amide Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be
very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly,
Amide Dubois would do admirably.

A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the
street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke
in on the cure's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to
the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent
of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that!
Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that
section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly.
Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the
grand reception to-night that the Societe des Beaux-Arts was tendering
to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but
to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the
President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty _soutane_
would be not a little out of place there--and besides, the Jean of
Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one
should not let such thoughts come--but it was true.

Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking
at the door now.

"Yes--come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the
door opened--and stopped in stunned amazement--and ran forward again,
holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried.

Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his
neck.

"Oh, Father Anton! Dear, dear Father Anton!" she was repeating over
and over again.

"Well, well--but, but--well, well," was all he could say--and kissed
her, and pressed her face against his shoulder, and patted her head.

And then he held her off to look at her. It was the same Marie-Louise,
with the same bright eyes, even if they were glistening now with tears;
the same Marie-Louise, just as though this was Bernay-sur-Mer and not
Paris at all, for there was no hat to hide the great black tresses of
hair, and there was just the same simple style of loose blouse and
ankle skirt that she always wore in the little village, and it might
well have been that he and she were there again, there in
Bernay-sur-Mer--only on the floor, where she had dropped it as she ran
to meet him, was a neatly tied-up little bundle that spoke