Well, what brings me here is your letter, Monsieur Jean, that letter in
which you tell my sister that you can not dine with us this evening, and
that you are positively obliged to leave here. This letter has unsettled
all my plans. I had intended, this evening--of course with the
permission of my sister and brother-in-law--I had intended, after dinner,
to take you into the park, to seat myself with you on a bench; I was
childish enough to choose the place beforehand."

"There I should have delivered a little speech, well prepared, well
studied, almost learned by heart, for since your departure I have
scarcely thought of anything else; I repeat it to myself from morning to
night. That is what I had proposed to do, and you understand that your
letter caused me much embarrassment. I reflected a little, and thought
that if I addressed my little speech to your godfather it would be almost
the same as if I addressed it to you. So I have come, Monsieur le Cure,
to beg you to listen to me."

"I will listen to you, Miss Percival," stammered the Abbe.

"I am rich, Monsieur le Cure, I am very rich, and to speak frankly
I love my wealth very much-yes, very much. To it I owe the luxury which
surrounds me, luxury which, I acknowledge--it is a confession--is by no
means disagreeable to me. My excuse is that I am still very young;
it will perhaps pass as I grow older, but of that I am not very sure.
I have another excuse; it is, that if I love money a little for the
pleasure that it procures me, I love it still more for the good which it
allows me to do. I love it--selfishly, if you like--for the joy of
giving, but I think that my fortune is not very badly placed in my hands.
Well, Monsieur le Cure, in the same way that you have the care of souls,
it seems that I have the care of money. I have always thought, 'I wish,