The Seigneur was astounded. The Cure's meaning was plain. "What do you
mean?" he asked, almost gruffly.

"She--Rosalie--has changed--changed." In his heart he dwelt sorrowfully
upon the fact that she had not been to confession to him for many, many
months.

"Since her father's death--since her illness?"

"Since she went to Montreal seven months ago. Even while she was so ill
these past weeks, she never asked for me; and when I came . . . Ah, if
it is that her heart has gone out to the man, and his does not respond!"

"A good thing, too!" said the other gloomily. "We don't know where he
came from, and we do know that he is a pagan."

"Yet there she sits now, hour after hour, day after day--so changed."

"She has lost her father," urged M. Rossignol anxiously.

"I know the grief of children--this is not such a grief. There is
something more. But I cannot ask. If she were a sinner--but she is
without fault. Have we not watched her grow up here, mirthful, brave,
pure-souled--"

"Fitted for any station," interposed the Seigneur huskily. Presently he
laid a hand upon the Cure's arm. "Shall I ask her again?" he said,
breathing hard. "Do you think she has found out her mistake?"