r de Lamotte stood still, and, shading
his eyes with his hand from the brilliant sunlight which flooded the
plain, and was strongly reflected from the water, endeavoured to see if
some new object had not appeared on the horizon, then slowly resumed his
walk with a movement of uneasy impatience. The tower clock struck with a
noisy resonance.

"Six o'clock already!" he exclaimed. "They will assuredly not arrive
to-day."

"Why despair?" said the cure. "Your servant has gone to meet them; we
might see their boat any moment."

"But, my father," returned Monsieur de Lamotte, "the long days are
already past. In another hour the mist will rise, and then they would
not venture on the river."

"Well, if that happens, we shall have to be patient; they will stay all
night at some little distance, and you will see them to-morrow morning."

"My brother is right," said the other priest. "Come, monsieur; do not be
anxious."

"You both speak with the indifference of persons to whom family troubles
are unknown."

"What!" said the cure, "do you really think that because our sacred
profession condemns us both to celibacy, we are therefore unable to
comprehend an affection such as yours, on which I myself pronounced the
hallowing benediction of the Church--if you remember--nearly fifteen
years ago?"

"Is it perhaps intentionally, my father, that you recall the date of my
marriage? I readily admit that the love of one's neighbour may enlighten
you as to another love to which you have yourself been a stranger. I
daresay it seems odd to you that a man of my age should be anxious about
so little, as though he were a love-sick youth; but for some time past I
have had presentiments of evil, and I am really becoming superstitious!"

He again stood still, gazing up the river, and, seeing nothing, resumed
his place between the two priests, who had continued their walk.

"Yes," he continued, "I have presentiments which refuse to be shaken off.
I am not so old that age can have weakened my powers and reduced me to
childishness, I cannot even say what I am afraid of, but separation is
painful and causes an involuntary terror. Strange, is it not? Formerly,
I used to leave my wife for months together, when she was young and my
son only, an infant; I loved her passionately, yet I could go with
pleasure. Why, I wonder, is it so different now? Why should a journey
to Paris on business, and a few hours' delay, make, me so terribly
une