It would be unpardonable desecration to enter the chamber of
Father Beret's soul and look upon his sacred and secret trouble;
nor must we even speculate as to its particulars. The good old man
writhed and wrestled before the cross for a long time, until at
last he seemed to receive the calmness and strength he prayed for
so fervently; then he rose, tore the letter into pieces so small
that not a word remained whole, and squeezed them so firmly
together that they were compressed into a tiny, solid ball, which
he let fall through a crack between the floor puncheons. After
waiting twenty years for that letter, hungry as his heart was, he
did not even open it when at last it arrived. He would never know
what message it bore. The link between him and the old sweet days
was broken forever. Now with God's help he could do his work to
the end.

He went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. Was it
a mere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from its
grass-tuft, and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it lit
with a light yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting its
tender, lonesome-sounding strain? If Father Beret heard it he gave
no sign of recognition; very likely he was thinking about the
cargo of liquor and how he could best counteract its baleful
influence. He looked toward the "river house," as the inhabitants
had named a large shanty, which stood on a bluff of the Wabash not
far from where the road-bridge at present crosses, and saw men
gathering there.

Meantime Rene de Ronville had delivered Madame Roussillon's letter
with due promptness. Of course such a service demanded pie and
claret. What still better pleased him, Alice chose to be more