nd looked out at the sunshine glittering on the
melting snow.

"I will go for a walk," she thought, "and visit some of my poor people
in the village."

She ran up stairs for her hat and shawl, and sallied forth. Her poor
people in the village were always glad to see the beautiful girl who
emptied her purse so bountifully for them, and spoke to them so sweetly.
She visited half-a-dozen of her pensioners, leaving pleasant words and
silver shillings behind her, and then walked on to the Church of St.
Croix. The presbytery stood beside it, surrounded by a trim garden with
gravelled paths. Kate opened the garden gate, and walked up to where
Father Francis stood in the open doorway.

"I have come to see you," she said, "since you won't come to see us.
Have you forgotten your friends at Danton Hall? You have not been up for
a week."

"Too busy," said Father Francis; "the Cure is in Montreal, and all
devolves upon me. Come in."

She followed him into the little parlour, and sat down by the open
window.

"And what's the news from Danton Hall?"

"Nothing! Oh!" said Kate, blushing and smiling, "except another
wedding!"

"Another! Two more weddings, you mean?"

"No!" said Kate, surprised: "only one. Rose, you know, father, to M. La.
Touche!"

Father Francis looked at her a moment smilingly. "They haven't told you,
then?"

"What?"

"That your father is going to be married!"

Her heart stood still; the room seemed to swim around in the suddenness
of the shock.

"Father Francis!"

"You have not been told? Are you surprised? I have been expecting as
much as this for some time."

"You are jesting, Father Francis," she said, finding voice, which for a
moment had failed her; "it cannot be true!"

"It is quite true. I saw your father yesterday, and he told me himself."

"And to whom--?"

She tried to finish the sentence, but her rebellious tongue would not.

"To Grace! I am surprised that your father has not told you. If I had
dreamed it was in the slightest degree a secret, I certainly would not
have spoken." She did not answer.

He glanced at her, and saw that her cheeks and lips had turned ashen
white, as she gazed steadfastly out of the window.

"My child," said the priest, "you do not speak. You are not
disappointed--you are not grieved?"

She arose to go, still pale with the great and sudden surprise.

"You have given me a great shock in telling me this. I never dreamed of
another taking my dear dea