oman
Catholic priests are accustomed to hold all confessions made to them.
She felt that her secret would be too heavy to bear unshared, and that
times might arise when she would need advice or help from one knowing
all the truth.

Early the next morning, she went to Father Antoine's house. The good old
man was at work in his garden. His little cottage was surrounded by beds
which were gay with flowers from June till November. Nothing was left
in bloom now, except asters and chrysanthemums: but there was no flower,
not even his July carnations, in which he took such pride, as in his
chrysanthemums. As he heard the little gate shut, he looked up; saw that
it was a stranger; and came forward to meet her, bearing in his hand one
great wine-colored chrysanthemum blossom, as large as a blush rose:

"Is it to see me, daughter?" he said, with his inalienable old French
courtesy. Father Antoine had come of a race which had noble blood in its
veins. His ancestry had worn swords, and lived at courts, and Antoine
Ladeau never once, in his half century of work in these Canadian
forests, forgot that fact. Hetty looked him full in the face, and
colored scarlet, before she began to speak.

"You do not remember me," she said.

Father Antoine shook his head. "It is that I see so many faces each
year," he replied apologetically, "that it is not possible to remember;"
and he gazed earnestly into Hetty's expressive face.

"It is twenty years since I was here," Hetty continued. She felt a great
longing that Father Antoine should recollect her. It would seem to make
her task easier.

A reminiscence dawned on the priest's mind. "Twenty years?" he said,
"ah, but that is long! we were both young then. Is it--ah, is it
possible that it is the daughter with the father that I see?" Father
Antoine had never forgotten the beautiful relation between Hetty and her
father.

"Yes, I came with my father: you knew him very well," replied Hetty,
"and I always thought then that, if I had any trouble, I would like to
have you help me."

Father Antoine's merry face clouded over instantly. "And have you
trouble, my daughter? If the good God permits that I help you, I shall
be glad. I had a love for your father. He is no longer alive, or you
would not be in trouble;" and, leading Hetty into his little study,
Father Antoine sat down opposite her, and said:

"Tell me, my daughter."

Hetty's voice trembled, and tears filled her eyes: sympathy was hard