or under his
displeasure, "it is that I want money--a great deal. I beg your pardon if
I derange you. It is for the poor. Moreover, the _cure_ has written the
people of the village are ill--the vineyards did not yield well. They
must have money. I must send them some."

Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.

"That is the message of _monsieur le cure_, is it?" he said. "He wants
money! My dear Elizabeth, I must inquire further. You have a fortune, but
I cannot permit you to throw it away. You are a child, and do not
understand--"

[Illustration: "UNCLE BERTRAND," SAID THE CHILD, CLASPING HER HANDS.]

"But," cried Elizabeth, trembling with agitation, "they are so poor when
one does not help them: their vineyards are so little, and if the year is
bad they must starve. Aunt Clotilde gave to them every year--even in the
good years. She said they must be cared for like children."

"That was your Aunt Clotilde's charity," replied her uncle. "Sometimes
she was not so wise as she was devout. I must know more of this. I have
no time at present, I am going out of town. In a few days I will reflect
upon it. Tell your maid to give that hideous garment away. Go out to
drive--amuse yourself--you are too pale."

Elizabeth looked at his handsome, careless face in utter helplessness.
This was a matter of life and death to her; to him it meant nothing.

"But it is winter," she panted, breathlessly; "there is snow. Soon it
will be Christmas, and they will have nothing--no candles for the church,
no little manger for the holy child, nothing for the poorest ones. And
the children--"

"It shall be thought of later," said Uncle Bertrand. "I am too busy now.
Be reasonable, my child, and run away. You detain me."

He left her with a slight impatient shrug of his shoulders and the slight
amused smile on his lips. She heard him speak to his friend.

"She was brought up by one who had renounced the world," he said,
"and she has already renounced it herself--_pauvre petite enfant_! At
eleven years she wishes to devote her fortune to the poor and herself
to the Church."

Elizabeth sank back into the shadow of the _portieres_. Great
burning tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks, falling
upon her breast.

"He does not care," she said; "he does not know. And I do no one
good--no one." And she covered her face with her hands and stood sobbing
all alone.

When she returned to her room she was so pale that her maid looked at he