, where she had been afraid that she would not
find room, she saw that it was almost empty. The bereaved family sat in
the choir; here and there was some village authority, a tradesman and
the heads of the factories. Very few of the working men and women were
present; they had not thought to come and join their prayers to those of
their employer.

Perrine took a seat beside Rosalie and her grandmother, who was in deep
mourning.

"Alas! my poor little Edmond," murmured the old nurse, wiping her eyes.
"What did M. Vulfran say?"

But Perrine was too overcome to reply. The services commenced.

As she left the church, Mlle. Belhomme came up to her, and, like
Francoise, wanted to question her about M. Vulfran. Perrine told her
that he had not spoken to her since the evening before.

"As I saw him kneeling there so crushed and broken for the first time, I
was pleased that he was blind," said the governess sadly.

"Why?" asked Perrine.

"Because he could not see how few people came to the church. What
indifference his men have shown! If he could have seen that empty church
it would have added to his grief."

"I think he must have known how few there were there," said Perrine.
"His ears take the place of his eyes, and that empty silence could not
deceive him."

"Poor man," murmured Mlle. Belhomme; "and yet...."

She paused. Then, as she was not in the habit of holding anything back,
she went on: "And yet it will be a great lesson to him. You know, my
child, you cannot expect others to share your sorrows if you are not
willing to share theirs.

"M. Vulfran gives his men what he considers their due," she continued,
in a lower voice. "He is just, but that is all. He has never been a
father to his men. He is all for business, business only. What a lot of
good he could have done, however, not only here, but everywhere, if he
had wished, by setting an example. Had he been more to his men you may
be sure that the church would not have been as empty as it was today."

Perhaps that was true, but how it hurt Perrine to hear this from the
lips of her governess, of whom she was so fond. If anyone else had said
so she might not have felt it so deeply. Yes, undoubtedly it was too
true.

They had been walking as they talked, and had now reached the schools
where Mlle. Belhomme lived.

"Come in and we'll have luncheon together," she said. She was thinking
that her pupil would not be allowed to take her accustomed place at the