s
door to you when you come and knock."

Jeanne sat for a long time with this letter lying open on her knees.
Perhaps, after all, the priest's words were true; and all her religious
doubts and uncertainties returned to harass her mind. Was it possible
that God could be vindictive and jealous like men? But if he was not
jealous, he would no longer be feared and loved, and, no doubt, it was
that we might the better know him, that he manifested himself to men, as
influenced by the same feeling as themselves. Then she felt the fear,
the cowardly dread, which urges those who hesitate and doubt to seek the
safety of the Church, and one evening, when it was dark, she stealthily
ran to the vicarage, and knelt at the foot of the fragile-looking priest
to solicit absolution. He only promised her a semi-pardon, as God could
not shower all his favors on a house which sheltered such a man as the
baron. "Still, you will soon receive a proof of the divine mercy," said
the priest.

Two days later, Jeanne did indeed receive a letter from her son, and in
the excess of her grief, she looked upon it as the forerunner of the
consolation promised by the abbe. The letter ran thus:

"My Dear Mother: Do not be uneasy about me. I am at London, and in
good health, but in great need of money. We have not a sou, and
some days we have to go without anything to eat. She who is with
me, and whom I love with all my heart, has spent all she had (some
five thousand francs) that she might remain with me, and you will,
of course, understand that I am bound in honor to discharge my debt
to her at the very first opportunity. I shall soon be of age, but
it would be very good of you if you would advance me fifteen
thousand francs of what I inherit from papa; it would relieve me
from great embarrassments.

"Good-bye, mother dear; I hope soon to see you again, but in the
meantime, I send much love to grandfather, Aunt Lison and yourself.
Your son,

"Vicomte Paul de Lamare."

Then he had not forgotten her, for he had written to her! She did not
stop to think that it was simply to ask her for money; he had not any
and some should be sent him; what did money matter? He had written to
her!

She ran to show the letter to the baron, the tears streaming from her
eyes. Aunt Lison was called, and, word by word, they read over this
letter which spoke of t