already seen a proof of the truth of
it in her treatment of Henry Clairville? Was there not even now a
curious malicious gleam in her dark eye, a frown upon her forehead, a
kind of puckered and contemptuous smile upon her lips? Handsome and
probably clever, even good she might be, and yet remain--unamiable.

"I am afraid you have not had a happy life," said he, very gently, and
the simplicity and kindness of his manner smote upon her stormy
countenance, so that it melted and all the ugly hardness and latent
shrewishness died away.

"I have not, I have not!" she cried. "You see my situation here, my
surroundings. Henry, my poor unfortunate brother; the old house, which
might be so comfortable, falling to pieces for lack of money to keep it
up; these terrible people, the Archambaults, pretending to work, but
living on me and eating up everything on the place; the village, with
none in it to know or speak to that I care about; the lonely country
all around, cold in winter, hot in summer; the conviction that Henry
will get worse; the fear of--the fear of----." She stopped.

"The fear of what?" said Ringfield quietly. "You need have no fear
whatever of anything. You are one of God's children. Perfect love
casteth out fear. Dear Miss Clairville, so recently a stranger, but
rapidly becoming so well known to me, never mind about sermons and
conversions. Never mind about Catholic or Protestant, bond or free,
English Church or Methodist. Just think of one thing. Just cling to
one thought. You are in God's hands. He will not try you too far."
Very impressively he repeated this, bending forward till he could look
into her troubled eyes. "I believe, and you must believe too, that in
His infinite goodness He will not try you too far."

A shiver passed over her frame. She lowered her eyes, her mouth
twitched once or twice, then she remained silent and passive while
Ringfield, thinking he had said enough, resumed his paddling. It was
some minutes before conversation recommenced and then Mademoiselle
Clairville requested him to return.

"Do not think," said she, "that I am offended at your preaching to me,"
and now a mild sadness had succeeded to her wilder mood, "but one of
the servants is signalling to me from the shore; my brother probably is
in need of me. You will come to see us, to see me again, and I shall
hope to hear that you will remain at St. Ignace for the winter at
least. Here is one patient of the