priest as if he saw the ghost of his countess.

"You heard--?" he gasped.

"She is not at peace, monsieur. She moans and shrieks in a terrible,
smothered way, as if a hand were on her mouth--"

But he had uttered the last of his words. The count had suddenly
recovered himself and dashed from the room. The priest passed his hand
across his forehead and sank slowly to the floor.

"He will see that I spoke the truth," he thought, as he fell asleep,
"and to-morrow he will intercede for my poor friends."

* * * * *

The priest lies high on the hill where no train will ever disturb him,
and his old comrades of the violated cemetery are close about him. For
the Count and Countess of Croisac, who adore his memory, hastened to
give him in death what he most had desired in the last of his life. And
with them all things are well, for a man, too, may be born again, and
without descending into the grave.




IV

The Greatest Good of the
Greatest Number