Father Beret's face and voice changed on the instant. He laughed
dryly and said, with a sly gleam in his eyes:

"You could spend the evening pleasantly with Madame Roussillon and
Jean. Jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow."

Rene brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held it
up before Father Beret's face.

"Maybe you think I haven't any letter for M'sieu' Roussillon," he
blurted; "and maybe you are quite certain that I am not going to
the house to take the letter."

"Monsieur Roussillon is absent, you know," Father Beret suggested.
"But cherry pies are just as good while he's gone as when he's at
home, and I happen to know that there are some particularly
delicious ones in the pantry of Madame Roussillon. Mademoiselle
Alice gave me a juicy sample; but then I dare say you do not care
to have your pie served by her hand. It would interfere with your
appetite; eh, my son?"

Rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with
his back to the priest he strode away along the wet path leading
to the Roussillon place.

Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious
expression in which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an
elusive twilight. He took out his letter, but did not glance at
it, simply holding it tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand.