atever came to him,
Rosalie would not be alone.

"I believe every word of yours," he said, shaking her hand, "and we'll
see, you and I, that no man marries her who isn't ready to do what you
say."

"Would you do it yourself--if it was you?" she asked, flushing for her
boldness.

"I would," he answered.

"Then do it," she said, and fled inside the house and shut the door.

"Mrs. Flynn--good Mrs. Flynn!" he said, and went back sadly to his
house, and shut himself up with his thoughts. When night drew on he went
to bed, but he could not sleep. He got up after a time, and taking pen
and paper, wrote for a long time. Having finished, he took what he had
written, and placing it with the two packets-of money and pearls--which
he had brought from his old home, he addressed it to the Cure, and going
to the safe in the wall of the shop, placed them inside and locked the
door.

Then he went to bed, and slept soundly--the deep sleep of the just.

CHAPTER LVII. A BURNING FIERY FURNACE

Every man within the limits of the parish was in his bed, save one. He
was a stranger who, once before, had visited Chaudiere for one brief
day, when he had been saved from death at the Red Ravine, and had fled
the village that night because, as he thought, he had heard the voice of
his old friend's ghost in the trees. Since that time he had travelled
in many parishes, healing where he could, entertaining where he might,
earning money as the charlatan. He was now on his way back through the
parishes to Montreal, and his route lay through Chaudiere. He had
hoped to reach Chaudiere before nightfall--he remembered with fear the
incident from which he had fled many months before; but his horse had
broken its leg on a corduroy bridge, a few miles out from the parish in
the hills, and darkness came upon him before he could hide his wagon
in the woods and proceed afoot to Chaudiere. He had shot his horse, and
rolled it into the swift torrent beneath the bridge.

Travelling the lonely road, he drank freely from the whiskey-horn he
carried, to keep his spirits up, so that by the time he came to the
outskirts of Chaudiere he was in a state of intoxication, and reeled
impudently along with the "Dutch courage" the liquor had given
him. Arrived at the first cluster of houses in the place, he paused
uncertain. Should he knock here or go on to the tavern? He shivered at
thought of the tavern, for it was near it he had heard Charley Steele's
voice c