of it--that I did not allow it. But I
did not do it."

"Then you know who did it?"

"Of course I do."

"Who was it?"

"I swore long ago that I would not tell; and I never will. But you may
lay the blame on me, my dear; for, as I told you, I permitted the deed.
It was necessary. Our lives depended on it."

"May you not find your eternal death depend on it!" said Therese,
agonised by suspicions as to whose hand it was by which her child had
died. In a moment, she formed a resolve which she never broke--never
again to seek to know that which Papalier now refused to tell. A glance
at the countenance before her filled her with remorse the next instant,
at what now seemed the cruel words she had just spoken.

"Let me bring Father Gabriel to you," said she. "He will give you
whatever comfort God permits."

"Do not suppose I shall tell Father Gabriel what you want to discover,"
replied Papalier. "He has no business with more than my share of the
affair: which is what you know already. I am too weak to talk--to
Father Gabriel, or any one else."

"But you need comfort. You will rest better afterwards."

"Well, well; in the evening, perhaps. I must be quiet now. Comfort,
indeed!" he muttered. "Yes, I want comfort enough, in the horrid
condition I am in. But there is no comfort till one lies dead. I wish
I were dead."

He fell into a restless doze. Moved by his misery and melted by the
thought that she had wronged him, all these years, by harbouring the
image of his hand on her infant's throat--distracted, too, by the new
doubts that had arisen--Therese prayed and wept, wept and prayed, on
behalf of Papalier and all sinners. Again and again she implored that
these wretched hatreds, those miserable strifes, might be all hushed in
the grave,--might be wholly dissolved in death.

She was just stealing to the door, intending to send for Father Gabriel,
that he might be in readiness for the dying man's confession, when
Papalier started, cast his eyes round the room hurriedly, and
exclaimed--

"It is in vain to talk of attaching them. If one's eye is off them for
one moment--Oh! _you_ are there, Therese! I thought, after all I had
done for you--after all I had spent upon you--I thought you would not go
off with the rest. Don't go--Therese--Therese!"

"I am here," said she, perceiving that he no longer saw.

"I knew you would stay," he said, very faintly. "I cannot spare you, my
dear."

The last wo