periods, and also a book of the play. But
there is no one in the parish who reads German, and it occurred to the
Seigneur and myself that, understanding French so well, by chance you
may understand German also, and would, perhaps, translate the work for
us."

"I read German easily and speak it fairly," Charley answered, relieved;
"and you are welcome to my services."

The Cure's pale face flushed with pleasure. He took the little German
book from his pocket, and handed it over.

"It is not so very long," he said; "and we shall all be grateful." Then
an inspiration came to him; his eyes lighted.

"Monsieur," he said, "you will notice that there are no illustrations
in the book. It is possible that you might be able to make us a few
drawings--if we do not ask too much? It would aid greatly in the matter
of costume, and you might use my library--I have a fair number of
histories." The Cure was almost breathless, his heart thumped as he made
the request. After a slight pause he added, hastily: "You are always
doing for others. It is hardly kind to ask you; but we have some months
to spare; there need be no haste." Charley hastened to relieve the
Cure's anxiety. "Do not apologise," he said. "I will do what I can when
I can. But as for drawing, Monsieur, it will be but amateurish."

"Monsieur," interposed the Seigneur promptly, "if you're not an artist,
I'm damned!"

"Maurice!" murmured the Cure reproachfully. "Can't help it, Cure. I've
held it in for an hour. It had to come; so there it is exploded. I see
no damage either, save to my own reputation. Monsieur," he added to
Charley, "if I had gifts like yours, nothing would hold me. I should put
on more airs than Beauty Steele."

It was fortunate that, at that instant, Charley's face was turned away,
or the Seigneur would have seen it go white and startled. Charley did
not dare turn his head for the moment. He could not speak. What did the
Seigneur know of Beauty Steele?

To hide his momentary confusion, he went over to the drawer of a
cupboard in the wall, and placed the book inside. It gave him time
to recover himself. When he turned round again his face was calm, his
manner composed.

"And who, may I ask, is Beauty Steele?" he said. "Faith I do not know,"
answered the Seigneur, taking a pinch of snuff. "It's years since I
first read the phrase in a letter a scamp of a relative of mine wrote me
from the West. He had met a man of the name, who had a reputation as a