do."

He ceased speaking, and silence followed. He now, without doubt, had
what he had been seeking,--a suitable inlet for his discourse; but the
moment for speaking came, and he was still communing with himself.
Taking a chair, he sat down at Helene's side.

"Hearken to me, my dear child," he began. "For some time past I have
wished to talk with you seriously. The life you are leading here can
entail no good results. A convent existence such as yours is not
consistent with your years; and this abandonment of worldly pleasures
is as injurious to your child as it is to yourself. You are risking
many dangers--dangers to health, ay, and other dangers, too."

Helene raised her head with an expression of astonishment. "What do
you mean, my friend?" she asked.

"Dear me! I know the world but little," continued the priest, with
some slight embarrassment, "yet I know very well that a woman incurs
great risk when she remains without a protecting arm. To speak
frankly, you keep to your own company too much, and this seclusion in
which you hide yourself is not healthful, believe me. A day must come
when you will suffer from it."

"But I make no complaint; I am very happy as I am," she exclaimed with
spirit.

The old priest gently shook his large head.

"Yes, yes, that is all very well. You feel completely happy. I know
all that. Only, on the downhill path of a lonely, dreamy life, you
never know where you are going. Oh! I understand you perfectly; you
are incapable of doing any wrong. But sooner or later you might lose
your peace of mind. Some morning, when it is too late, you will find
that blank which you now leave in your life filled by some painful
feeling not to be confessed."

As she sat there in the shadow, a blush crimsoned Helene's face. Had
the Abbe, then, read her heart? Was he aware of this restlessness
which was fast possessing her--this heart-trouble which thrilled her
every-day life, and the existence of which she had till now been
unwilling to admit? Her needlework fell on her lap. A sensation of
weakness pervaded her, and she awaited from the priest something like
a pious complicity which would allow her to confess and particularize
the vague feelings which she buried in her innermost being. As all was
known to him, it was for him to question her, and she would strive to
answer.

"I leave myself in your hands, my friend," she murmured. "You are well
aware that I have always listened to you."

The pr