hat you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very
early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when nobody is there, you
shall have the care of his studio and _atelier_, so you will be able to
see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a
charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn."

"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"--she had jumped up joyfully from
her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I
have plenty--from my house, you know."

"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would
work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity
was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience
stricken at her gratitude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he
would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known
what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad
that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not
have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not
a role that lay lightly upon him.

"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?"

Father Anton coughed nervously.

"There--there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed
again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps--from the gallery.
I--I have a card."

She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement.

"Oh, come then!" she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him
toward the door.

Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He
was indeed a criminal--the criminal of the ages! But if it would save
Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him.
He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles.

"Yes, yes; at once!" he said mechanically. "But"--he was staring at
her now in sudden consternation--"but you cannot go like that! Have
you no other clothes?"

She pointed at the little bundle on the floor.

He shook his head.

"No hat? No coat?"

"No-o," she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy.

"But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!" he said, in concern.
"You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you
would freeze, my child."

She looked at him in silence--a sort of pitiful despair, mingling
bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the
expression of her