defend my poor Raoul from any charge brought
against him. For some good friend this day sent me a terrible organ
of communistic philosophy, in which we humble priests are very roughly
handled, and I myself am especially singled out by name as a pestilent
intermeddler in the affairs of private households. I am said to set
the women against the brave men who are friends of the people, and
am cautioned by very truculent threats to cease from such villainous
practices." And here, with a dry humour that turned into ridicule
what would otherwise have excited disgust and indignation among his
listeners, he read aloud passages replete with the sort of false
eloquence which was then the vogue among the Red journals. In these
passages, not only the Abbe was pointed out for popular execration, but
Raoul de Vandemar, though not expressly named, was clearly indicated as
a pupil of the Abbe's, the type of a lay Jesuit.

The Venosta alone did not share in the contemptuous laughter with which
the inflated style of these diatribes inspired the Rameaus. Her simple
Italian mind was horror-stricken by language which the Abbe treated with
ridicule.

"Ah!" said M. Rameau, "I guess the author--that firebrand Felix Pyat."

"No," answered the Abbe; "the writer signs himself by the name of a
more learned atheist--Diderot le jeune." Here the door opened, and Raoul
entered, accompanying Isaura. A change had come over the face of the
young Vandemar since his brother's death. The lines about the mouth had
deepened, the cheeks had lost their rounded contour and grown somewhat
hollow. But the expression was as serene as ever, perhaps even less
pensively melancholy. His whole aspect was that of a man who
has sorrowed, but been supported in sorrow; perhaps it was more
sweet-certainly it was more lofty.

And, as if there were in the atmosphere of his presence something that
communicated the likeness of his own soul to others, since Isaura had
been brought into his companionship, her own lovely face had caught
the expression that prevailed in his--that, too, had become more
sweet--that, too, had become more lofty.

The friendship that had grown up between these two young mourners was of
a very rare nature. It had in it no sentiment that could ever warm into
the passion of human love. Indeed, had Isaura's heart been free to give
away, love for Raoul de Vandemar would have seemed to her a profanation.
He was never more priestly than when he was most t