he thread where
he had broken it then. But he talked of other things, and so easily and
naturally that I felt embarrassed. For weeks I could not shake off the
feeling that, at our next talk, he would broach the subject. But he
never did.

Elysee returned, bringing me kind words from the Mother house, and a
half-jocular hint that Superior General Philippe had me much in his
mind. No doubt there had been a time when the idea of becoming a
Director would have stirred my pulses. Surely it was gone now. I asked
for nothing but to stay beside Edouard, to watch him, and to be near to
lend him a helping hand when his hour of trouble should come. From that
ordeal, which I saw approaching clearly and certainly, I shrank with
all my nerves on edge. As the object of my misery grew bright-eyed and
strong, I felt myself declining in health. My face grew thin, and I
could not eat. I saw before my eyes always this wretched boy singing
upon the brow of the abyss. Sometimes I strove not to see his fall--
frightful and swift. His secret seemed to harass him no longer. To me
it was heavier than lead.

The evening the Brother Director returned, we sat together in the
reading-room, the entire community. Elysee had been speaking of the
Mother house concerning which Brother Barnabas, an odd little Lorrainer
who spoke better German than French, and who regarded Paris with the
true provincial awe and veneration, exhibited much curiosity. We had a
visitor, a gaunt, self-sufficient old Parisian, who had spent fourteen
days in the Mazas prison during the Commune. I will call him Brother
Albert, for his true name in religion is very well known.

"I heard a curious story in the Vaugirard house," said the Brother
Director, refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff, "which made the
more impression upon me that I once knew intimately one of the persons
in it. Martin Delette was my schoolmate at Pfalsbourg in the old days.
A fine, studious lad he was, too. He took orders and went to the north,
where he lived for many years a quiet country cure. He had a niece, a
charming girl who is not now more than twenty or one-and-twenty. She
was an orphan, and lived with him, going to a convent to school and
returning at vacations. She was not a bad girl, but a trifle wayward
and easily led. She gave the Sisters much anxiety. Last spring she
barely escaped compromising the house by an escapade with a young
_miserable_ of the town, named Banin."

"I know your sto