"You are silent and stern, and I think you are very unhappy,
Jacqueline."

"I do not know,--not unhappy, I think. Perhaps I am silent,--I have been
so busy. But for all it is so dreadful--no! not unhappy, Elsie."

"Thinking of Leclerc all the while?"

"Of him? Oh, no! I have not been thinking of him,--not constantly. Jesus
Christ will take care of him. His mother is quiet, thinking that. I,
at least, can be as strong as she. I'm not thinking of the shame and
cruelty,--but of what that can be worth which is so much to him, that
he counts this punishment, as they call it, as nothing, as hardly pain,
certainly not disgrace. The Truth, Elsie!--if I have not as much to say,
it is because I have been trying to find the Truth."

"But if you have found it, then I hope I never shall,--if it is the
Truth that makes you so gloomy. I thought it was this business in
Meaux."

"Gloomy? when it may be I have found, or _shall_ find"--

Here Jacqueline hesitated,--looked at Elsie. Grave enough was that look
to expel every frivolous feeling from the heart of Elsie,--at least,
so long as she remained under its influence. It was something to trust
another as Jacqueline intended now to trust her friend. It was a
touching sight to see her seeking her old confidence, and appearing
to rely on it, while she knew how frail the reed was. But this girl,
frivolous as was her spirit, this girl had come with her from the
distant native village; their childhood's recollections were the same.