quenters of the
jasmine-scented garden in one ship to France, where the law offered no
obstacles.

It seemed moderately certain to those in search of Monsieur Vignevielle
(and it was true) that Jean and Evariste were his harborers; but for all
that the hunt, even for clues, was vain. The little banking
establishment had not been disturbed. Jean Thompson had told the
searchers certain facts about it, and about its gentle proprietor as
well, that persuaded them to make no move against the concern, if the
same relations did not even induce a relaxation of their efforts for his
personal discovery.

Pere Jerome was walking to and fro, with his hands behind him, pondering
these matters. He had paused a moment at the end of the walk furthest
from his window, and was looking around upon the sky, when, turning, he
beheld a closely veiled female figure standing at the other end, and
knew instantly that it was Olive.

She came forward quickly and with evident eagerness.

"I came to confession," she said, breathing hurriedly, the excitement in
her eyes shining through her veil, "but I find I am too late."

"There is no too late or too early for that; I am always ready," said
the priest. "But how is your mother?"

"Ah!----"

Her voice failed.

"More trouble?"

"Ah, sir, I have _made_ trouble. Oh, Pere Jerome, I am bringing so much
trouble upon my poor mother!"

Pere Jerome moved slowly toward the house, with his eyes cast down, the
veiled girl at his side.

"It is not your fault," he presently said. And after another pause: "I
thought it was all arranged."

He looked up and could see, even through the veil, her crimson blush.

"Oh, no," she replied, in a low, despairing voice, dropping her face.

"What is the difficulty?" asked the priest, stopping in the angle of the
path, where it turned toward the front of the house.

She averted her face, and began picking the thin scales of bark from a
crape-myrtle.

"Madame Thompson and her husband were at our house this morning. _He_
had told Monsieur Thompson all about it. They were very kind to me at
first, but they tried----" She was weeping.

"What did they try to do?" asked the priest.

"They tried to make me believe he is insane."

She succeeded in passing her handkerchief up under her veil.

"And I suppose then your poor mother grew angry, eh?"

"Yes; and they became much more so, and said if we did not write, or
send a writing, to _him_, within twenty-four