r night and day. He knew that it was true, knew what the end of
it would be. But still he must be careful to give no word that would
show that he knew what was coming. The French of the hills and of
Beaupre was a little too rapid for him but it was easy to follow the
thread of the story. When she had finished and was weeping quietly,
the Bishop prompted gently.

"And now? my daughter."

"And now, _Mon Pere_, must I tell? I would not tell. I loved Rafe
Gadbeau. As long as I shall live I shall love him. For his good name I
would die. But I cannot see the suffering of that girl, Ruth. _Mon
Pere_, it is too much! I cannot stand it. Yet I cannot go there before
men and call my love a murderer. Consider, _Mon Pere_. There is
another way. I, too, am guilty. I wished for the death of that man. I
would have killed him myself, for he had made Rafe Gadbeau do many
things that he would not have done. He made my love a murderer. I went
to keep Rafe Gadbeau from the setting of the fire. But I would have
killed that man myself with the gun if I could. So I hated him. When I
saw him fall, I clapped my hands in glee. See, _Mon Pere_, I am
guilty. And I called joyfully to my love to run with me and save
himself, for he was now free from that man forever. But he ran in the
path of the fire because he feared those other men.

"But see, _Mon Pere_, I am guilty. I will go and tell the court that I
am the guilty one. I will say that my hand shot that man. See, I will
tell the story. I have told it many times to myself. Such a straight
story I shall tell. And they will believe. I will make them believe.
And they will not hurt a girl much," she said, dropping back upon her
native shrewdness to strengthen her plea. "The railroad does not care
who killed Rogers. They want only to punish the young Whiting. And the
court will believe, as I shall tell it."

"But, my daughter," said the Bishop, temporising. "It would not be
true. We must not lie."

"But M'sieur the Bishop, himself," the girl argued swiftly, evidently
separating the priest in the confessional from the great bishop in his
public walk, "he himself, on the stand--"

The girl stopped abruptly.

The Bishop held the silence of the grave.

"_Mon Pere_ will make me tell, then--the truth," she began. "_Mon
Pere_, I cannot! I--!"

"Let us consider," the Bishop broke in deliberately. "Suppose he had
told this thing to you when he was dying. You would have said to him:
Your soul may n