he cure.

Even Tanrade was silent now, for his reverence had made the sign of the
cross. As his fingers moved I saw a peculiar look come into his eyes--a
look of mingled disappointment and resignation.

Again Alice spoke: "Your cracked bell at Pont du Sable has not long to
ring, my friend," she said very tenderly.

"One must be content, my child, with what one has," replied the cure.

Alice leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear, Germaine
smiling the while.

I saw his reverence give a little start of surprise.

"No, no," he protested half aloud. "Not that; it is too much to ask of
you with all your rehearsals at the Bouffes Parisiennes coming."

"_Parbleu!_" exclaimed Alice, "it will not be so very difficult--I shall
accomplish it, you shall see what a concert we shall give--we shall make
a lot of money; every one will be there. It has the voice of a frog,
your bell. _Dieu!_ What a fuss it makes over its crack. You shall have a
new one--two new ones, _mon ami_, even if we have to make bigger the
belfry of your little gray church to hang them."

The cure grew quite red. I saw for an instant his eyes fill with tears,
then with a benign smile, he laid his hand firmly over Alice's and
lifting the tips of her fingers, kissed them twice in gratefulness.

He was very happy. He was happy all the way back in Germaine's yellow
car to Pont du Sable. Happy when he thrust his heavy key in the rusty
lock of the small door that let him into his silent garden, cool under
the stars, and sweet with the scent of roses.

* * * * *

A long winter has passed since that memorable luncheon at The Three
Wolves. Our little pavilion over the emerald pool will never see us
reunited, I fear. A cloud has fallen over my good friend the cure, a
cloud so unbelievable, and yet so dense, if it be true, and so filled
with ominous mutterings of thunder and lightning, crime, defalcation,
banishment, and the like, that I go about my work dazed at the rumoured
situation.

They tell me the cure still says mass, and when it is over, regains the
presbytery by way of the back lane skirting the marsh. I am also told
that he rarely even ventures into his garden, but spends most of his
days and half of his nights alone in his den with the door locked, and
strict orders to his faithful old servant Marie, who adores him, that he
will see no one who calls.

For days I have not laid eyes on him--he who kept hi