trying to get
courage to ask it.

"You have a little boy?" asked the priest.

"No, I have only my daughter;" she indicated the girl at her side. Then
she began to say something else, stopped, and with much nervousness
asked:

"Pere Jerome, what was the name of that man?"

"His name?" said the priest. "You wish to know his name?"

"Yes, Monsieur" (or _Miche_, as she spoke it); "it was such a beautiful
story." The speaker's companion looked another way.

"His name," said Father Jerome,--"some say one name and some another.
Some think it was Jean Lafitte, the famous; you have heard of him? And
do you go to my church, Madame----?"

"No, Miche; not in the past; but from this time, yes. My name"--she
choked a little, and yet it evidently gave her pleasure to offer this
mark of confidence--"is Madame Delphine--Delphine Carraze."

CHAPTER VI.

A CRY OF DISTRESS.

Pere Jerome's smile and exclamation, as some days later he entered his
parlor in response to the announcement of a visitor, were indicative of
hearty greeting rather than surprise.

"Madame Delphine!"

Yet surprise could hardly have been altogether absent, for though
another Sunday had not yet come around, the slim, smallish figure
sitting in a corner, looking very much alone, and clad in dark attire,
which seemed to have been washed a trifle too often, was Delphine
Carraze on her second visit. And this, he was confident, was over and
above an attendance in the confessional, where he was sure he had
recognized her voice.

She rose bashfully and gave her hand, then looked to the floor, and
began a faltering speech, with a swallowing motion in the throat, smiled
weakly and commenced again, speaking, as before, in a gentle, low note,
frequently lifting up and casting down her eyes while shadows of anxiety
and smiles of apology chased each other rapidly across her face. She was
trying to ask his advice.

"Sit down," said he; and when they had taken seats she resumed, with
downcast eyes:

"You know,--probably I should have said this in the confessional, but"--

"No matter, Madame Delphine; I understand; you did not want an oracle,
perhaps; you want a friend."

She lifted her eyes, shining with tears, and dropped them again.

"I"--she ceased. "I have done a"--she dropped her head and shook it
despondingly--"a cruel thing." The tears rolled from her eyes as she
turned away her face.

Pere Jerome remained silent, and presently she turned agai