ere Jerome moved slowly toward the house, with his eyes cast down, the
veiled girl at his side.

"It is not your fault," he presently said. And after another pause: "I
thought it was all arranged."

He looked up and could see, even through the veil, her crimson blush.

"Oh, no," she replied, in a low, despairing voice, dropping her face.

"What is the difficulty?" asked the priest, stopping in the angle of the
path, where it turned toward the front of the house.

She averted her face, and began picking the thin scales of bark from a
crape-myrtle.

"Madame Thompson and her husband were at our house this morning. _He_
had told Monsieur Thompson all about it. They were very kind to me at
first, but they tried"--She was weeping.

"What did they try to do?" asked the priest.

"They tried to make me believe he is insane."

She succeeded in passing her handkerchief up under her veil.

"And I suppose then your poor mother grew angry, eh?"

"Yes; and they became much more so, and said if we did not write, or
send a writing, to _him_, within twenty-four hours, breaking the"--

"Engagement," said Pere Jerome.

"They would give him up to the Government. Oh, Pere Jerome, what shall I
do? It is killing my mother!"

She bowed her head and sobbed.

"Where is your mother now?"

"She has gone to see Monsieur Jean Thompson. She says she has a plan
that will match them all. I do not know what it is. I begged her not to
go; but oh, sir, _she is_ crazy,--and I am no better."

"My poor child," said Pere Jerome, "what you seem to want is not
absolution, but relief from persecution."

"Oh, father, I have committed mortal sin,--I am guilty of pride and
anger."

"Nevertheless," said the priest, starting toward his front gate, "we
will put off your confession. Let it go until to-morrow morning; you
will find me in my box just before mass; I will hear you then. My child,
I know that in your heart, now, you begrudge the time it would take; and
that is right. There are moments when we are not in place even on
penitential knees. It is so with you now. We must find your mother Go
you at once to your house; if she is there, comfort her as best you can,
and _keep her in, if possible_, until I come. If she is not there, stay;
leave me to find her; one of you, at least, must be where I can get word
to you promptly. God comfort and uphold you. I hope you may find her at
home; tell her, for me, not to fear,"--he lifted the gate-latch,-