The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his
hand, then thrust it inside his robe.

"It can wait," he said. Then, changing his voice; "the squirrels
you gave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you to think of
me," he added, laying his hand on Rene's arm.

"Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are so
kind to me always, and to everybody. When I killed the squirrels I
said to myself: 'These are young, juicy and tender, Father Beret
must have these,' so I brought them along."

The young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that Father
Beret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer
to be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again.

"Stay a while," he said, "I have not had a talk with you for some
time."

Rene looked a trifle uneasy.

"You will not drink any to-night, my son," Father Beret added.
"You must not; do you hear?"

The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen
expression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious; but
it was hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved, as did
every soul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and gentle,
yet positive to a degree. Rene did not say a word.