books are dull and stupidly heavy. What do I care about something
that a queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago in times of
plague and famine? Saints must have been poky people, and it is
poky people who care to read about them, I think. I like reading
about brave, heroic men and beautiful women, and war and love."

Pere Beret looked away with a curious expression in his face, his
eyes half closed.

"And I'll tell you now, Father Beret," Alice went on after a
pause, "no more claret and pies do you get until I can have my own
sort of books back again to read as I please." She stamped her
moccasin-shod foot with decided energy.

The good priest broke into a hearty laugh, and taking off his cap
of grass-straw mechanically scratched his bald head. He looked at
the tall, strong girl before him for a moment or two, and it would
have been hard for the best physiognomist to decide just how much
of approval and how much of disapproval that look really
signified.

Although, as Father Beret had said, the sun's heat was violent,
causing that gentle soul to pass his bundled handkerchief with a
wiping circular motion over his bald and bedewed pate, the wind
was momently freshening, while up from behind the trees on the
horizon beyond the river, a cloud was rising blue-black, tumbled,
and grim against the sky.

"Well," said the priest, evidently trying hard to exchange his
laugh for a look of regretful resignation, "you will have your own