rying as if her heart would break. It
was Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her coldly.

"You were so ready to suspect," he said.

Then he turned once more to the Cure. "I meant it as my gift to the
Church, monsieur le Cure--to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked up
here to what I might do in sculpture, and you--you all were so ready to
suspect! Take it, it is my last gift."

He went to the statue, touched the hands of it lovingly, and stooped and
kissed the feet. Then, without more words, he turned and left the shed
and the house.

Pouring out into the street the people watched him cross the bridge
that led into another parish--and into another world: for from that hour
Francois Lagarre was never seen in Pontiac.

The statue that he made stands upon a little hill above the valley where
the beaters of flax come in the autumn, through which the woodsmen pass
in winter and in spring. But Francois Lagarre, under another name, works
in another land.

While the Cure lived he heard of him and of his fame now and then, and
to the day of his death he always prayed for him. He was wont to say to
the little Avocat whenever Francois's name was mentioned:

"The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can
bear?"

THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE

The chest of drawers, the bed, the bedding, the pieces of linen, and the
pile of yarn had been ready for many months. Annette had made inventory
of them every day since the dot was complete--at first with a great deal
of pride, after a time more shyly and wistfully: Benoit did not come.
He had said he would be down with the first drive of logs in the summer,
and at the little church of St. Saviour's they would settle everything
and get the Cure's blessing. Almost anybody would have believed in
Benoit. He had the brightest scarf, the merriest laugh, the quickest
eyes, and the blackest head in Pontiac; and no one among the river
drivers could sing like him. That was, he said gaily, because his
earrings were gold, and not brass like those of his comrades. Thus
Benoit was a little vain, and something more; but old ladies such as the
Little Chemist's wife said he was galant. Probably only Medallion
the auctioneer and the Cure did not lose themselves in the general
admiration; they thought he was to Annette like a farthing dip to a holy
candle.

Annette was the youngest of twelve, and one of a family of thirty-for
some of her married brothers and sisters and thei