benches. He stood still to listen, shook his old head, and muttering to
himself:

"Great God--merciful and kind.... Thou alone canst know wherefore Thou
hast set the rose-garland of life with so many sharp thorns," he went up
to Agne who rose at his approach.

"Why, my child," he said kindly, "what are you weeping for? Have you,
too, lost some dear one killed in the fray?"

"No, no," she hastily replied with a gesture of terror at the thought.

"What then do you want here at so late an hour?"

"Nothing--nothing," she said. "That is all over! Good God, how long I
must have been sitting here--I--I know I must go; yes, I know it."

"And are you alone-no one with you?"

She shook her head sadly. The old man looked at her narrowly.

"Then I will take you safe home," he said. "You see I am an old man and
a priest. Where do you live, my child?"

"I? I. . ." stammered Agne, and a torrent of scalding tears fell down
her cheeks. "My God! my God! where, where am I to go?"

"You have no home, no one belonging to you?" asked the old man. "Come,
child, pluck up your courage and tell me truly what it is that troubles
you; perhaps I may be able to help you."