t given you to know. It is hidden in the bosom of the Church. Sinner
he once was, criminal never, as one can testify who knows all"--he
turned to the Abbe Rossignol, who stood beside him, grave and
compassionate--"and his sins were forgiven him. He is the one sheaf
which you and I may carry home rejoicing from the pagan world of
unbelief. What he had in life he gave to us, and in death he leaves
to our church all that he has not left to a woman he loved--to Rosalie
Evanturel."

There was a gasping murmur among the people, but they stilled again, and
strained to hear.

"He leaves her a little fortune, and to us all else he had. Let us
pray for his soul, and let us comfort her who, loving deeply, reaped no
harvest of love.

"The law may never reach his ruthless murderers, for there is none to
recognise their faces; and were they ten times punished, how should
it avail us now! Let us always remember that, in his grave, our friend
bears on his breast the little iron cross we held so dear. That is
all we could give--our dearest treasure. I pray God that, scarring his
breast in life, it may heal all his woes in death, and be a saving image
on his bosom in the Presence at the last."

He raised his hands in benediction.

EPILOGUE

Never again was there a Passion Play in the Chaudiere Valley.
Spring-times and harvests and long winters came and went, and a blessing
seemed to be upon the valley, for men prospered, and no untoward things
befel the people. So it was for twenty years, wherein there had been
going and coming in quiet. Some had gone upon short mortal journeys and
had come back, some upon long immortal voyages, and had never returned.
Of the last were the Seigneur and a woman once a Magdalene; but in a
house beside a beautiful church, with a noble doorway, lived the Cure,
M. Loisel, aged and serene. There never was a day, come rain or shine,
in which he was not visited by a beautiful woman, whose life was one
with the people of the valley.

There was no sorrow in the parish which the lady did not share, with the
help of an old Irishwoman called Mrs. Flynn. Was there sickness in the
parish, her hand smoothed the pillow and soothed the pain. Was there
trouble anywhere, her face brought light to the door way. Did any suffer
ill-repute, her word helped to restore the ruined name. They did not
know that she forgave so much in all the world, because she thought she
had so much in herself to forgive.

She was