ce in the least. "My
brother, it is with grief that I learn of what has been going on
in your parish of late, of the sin and evil behavior."

"Alas, my brother," responded Father Benart gravely, "there is always
sin and evil behavior of some sort in this parish, and I greatly fear,
until mankind is totally changed from what it has ever been, that a
certain portion of sin and evil behavior must abide with us."

The bishop scowled.

"I fear you do not precisely understand me, brother. I refer
particularly to the case of Peter Embden's niece, who, I hear, has
returned here, and has not only had all her sins forgiven, but
forgotten, as it were. And I recognize the girl yonder flaunting her
shame in the face of honest women."

Father Benart silently pointed out of the coach window to Lisa in the
distance, her thin form outlined against the bright sky of a May
morning. She was a picture of patience and penitence. The bishop,
however, although he was not a cruel man, loved to scold, and
proceeded to harangue Father Benart, who listened patiently and
replied:

"The unfortunate girl is a shining example of God's grace. She tells
me--and I have ever found her truthful, having known her from her
infancy--that finding herself deserted by that villain of villains,
Jacques Haret, she had but one thought--to drown herself--and, as she
walked along the brink of a river with this thought in her heart,
God's light came to her; she saw it would be but to heap sin on sin,
and a voice within her bade her return to her uncle, who had suffered
so much for her sin. And so, struggling against the Spirit of Evil,
which made her dread this place worse than any in the world, she came
back; came back half starved, half clothed, and arriving at nightfall,
went to Peter Embden's door, and offered to go or to stay, as he
should wish. And he, a gentle and forgiving man, bade her, as did our
Lord and Saviour, to sin no more, and took her again under his roof.
Then, coming early next morning to ask of me what he should do, being
greatly troubled in his mind, I said to him to treat this poor sinner
as he himself would wish to be treated at the Last Day. So he has
given her bread and shelter since."

"Very reprehensible," cried the bishop. "Such lapses should be
punished, punished with severity, and Madame Cheverny, wilful and
impractical woman that she is, disdaining advice from all, abetted you
in this, for the girl could not have remained in Pet