isa being convenient, they became the natural
objects of the bishop's righteous indignation. In the evening, after
his arrival at his brother's house, the bishop told Father Benart that
he felt it his duty to speak to Lisa Embden--he was fearful that the
girl's soul would be lost for want of counsel and reproof. Father
Benart, without protesting, said that he would send for Lisa in the
morning. Next morning, when the bishop was having his breakfast in the
garden, Lisa appeared. This brazen creature, as the bishop chose to
esteem her, looked anything but brazen. With every indication of
privations undergone, and with her poor clothes, Lisa was a very good
exemplification that the wages of sin is death.

The bishop calling up his sternest accents said:

"I know what your sin has been--are you truly penitent for it?"

Lisa made a faint sound, indicating her penitence.

"And are you willing to do penance for it?"

Lisa inclined her head, and trembled.

"Your sin has been very great. Your behavior no doubt was light, such
as to encourage Jacques Haret or any other evil man."

Lisa raised her eyes to the bishop's face, and said gently:

"Sir, I can not say that. However wicked I was, at least I was not
wicked in that way."

"But you must have been," replied the bishop, with the calm confidence
of ignorance. "And the misery you endured while persisting in your
sinful courses, was God's punishment."

"But, sir," said Lisa, still calmly, "I was not miserable then. I was
the happiest of God's creatures."

"Impossible!" cried the bishop, starting from his chair, as he had
done the day before, in the interview with that other obstinate woman,
Francezka Cheverny.

Lisa did not contradict the bishop, but the bishop saw that his denial
of the fact had not really affected that fact.

"Do you mean to tell me," thundered the bishop, "that you were happy
in the society of your partner in guilt?"

"Yes, sir."

The bishop dropped back in his chair. What problems were these parish
affairs anyway! Here was a girl, persisting in saying she had been
happy in guilt, when the bishop knew--or thought he knew--that all
sinners were miserable!

"But at least you are not happy now?"

"No, sir."

"And why?"

"Because," replied poor Lisa, with the utmost simplicity, "I can never
see Monsieur Jacques Haret again."

"You may go."

Lisa turned and walked rapidly away.

Soon after that I passed through the village, and noticed