of the long
journey.

"Well, well!" he ejaculated helplessly again, and closed the door, and
drew her to a chair and sat down, while she knelt affectionately on the
floor at his knees.

"Oh!" she said excitedly. "I did not think Paris could be so big a
place. And there was such a crowd in the station, and such a crowd
outside, and so many streets, and all the people I spoke to only shook
their heads when I asked for Father Anton, and--and then I began to be
a little frightened. And then--what do you think? Imagine! Was I not
grand? For a franc-fifty a _coccer_ said he would drive me to the
address, and--_me voici_! Did I not do well?"

"Splendidly!" he agreed approvingly. "But, Marie-Louise, I do not
understand. It is a great surprise. You did not write; you said
nothing about coming to Paris. Why did you not tell me you were
coming?"

She looked up at him merrily.

"Must I answer that--quite truthfully?"

"Of course!" he said, smiling indulgently.

"Well, then," she said demurely, "I was afraid you would say I should
not come--and now that I am here you cannot say it."

"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession
you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not
approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?"

"Nothing has happened," she answered--but now she looked away from him
as she spoke. "I have sold my house there."

"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He
took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at
him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only
make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came
tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is
it?"

"Nothing!" she said again. "Only--only I could not stay there any
longer"--and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the
old priest's knees.

"But, Marie-Louise--Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay--and
laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head.

She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily.

"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and
the new things, and seeing you again--but it is over now." Then, a
little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean."

"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her
closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed
to read the truth in her eyes: "It--it