joinder. If he was not a Catholic, what matter
what he was? If he was not a Catholic, were he Buddhist, pagan, or
Protestant, the position for them personally was the same. "I am
very sorry," he said gently. "I might have helped you had you been a
Catholic."

The eye-glass came like lightning to the eye, and a caustic, questioning
phrase was on the tongue, but Charley stopped himself in time. For,
apart from all else, this priest had been his friend in calamity, had
acted with a charming sensibility. The eye-glass troubled the Cure, and
the look on Charley's face troubled him still more, but it passed as
Charley said, in a voice as simple as the Cure's own:

"You may still help me as you have already done. I give you my word,
too"--strange that he touched his lips with his tongue as he did in the
old days when his mind turned to Jean Jolicoeur's saloon--"that I
will do nothing to cause regret for your humanity and--and Christian
kindness." Again the tongue touched the lips--a wave of the old life had
swept over him, the old thirst had rushed upon him. Perhaps it was the
force of this feeling which made him add, with a curious energy, "I give
you my word, Monsieur le Cure." At that moment the door opened and Jo
entered.

"M'sieu'," he said to Charley, "a registered parcel has come for you.
It has been brought by the postmaster's daughter. She will give it to no
one but yourself."

Charley's face paled, and the Cure's was scarcely less pale. In
Charley's mind was the question, Who had discovered his presence here?
Was he not, then, to escape? Who should send him parcels through the
post?

The Cure was perturbed. Was he, then, to know who this man was--his name
and history? Was the story of his life now to be told?

Charley broke the silence. "Tell the girl to come in." Instantly
afterwards the postmaster's daughter entered. The look of the girl's
face, at once delicate and rosy with health, almost put the question of
the letter out of his mind for an instant. Her dark eyes met his as he
came forward with outstretched hand.

"This is addressed, as you will see, 'To the Sick Man at the House of
Jo Portugais, at Vadrome Mountain.' Are you that person, Monsieur?" she
asked.

As she handed the parcel, Charley's eyes scanned her face quickly. How
did this habitant girl come by this perfect French accent, this refined
manner? He did not know the handwriting on the parcel; he hastily tore
it open. Inside were a few doz