“At last your mother-heart conquered,” said Pere Jerome.

She nodded.

“The sisters married, the mother died; I saw that even where she was she did not escape the reproach of her birth and blood, and when she asked me to let her come”—­The speaker’s brimming eyes rose an instant.  “I know it was wicked, but—­I said, come.”

The tears dripped through her hands upon her dress.

“Was it she who was with you last Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“And now you do not know what to do with her?”

“Ah! c’est ca oui!—­that is it.”

“Does she look like you, Madame Delphine?”

“Oh, thank God”, no! you would never believe she was my daughter, she is white and beautiful!”

“You thank God for that which is your main difficulty, Madame Delphine.”

“Alas! yes.”

Pere Jerome laid his palms tightly across his knees with his arms bowed out, and fixed his eyes upon the ground, pondering.

“I suppose she is a sweet, good daughter?” said he, glancing at Madame Delphine, without changing his attitude.

Her answer was to raise her eyes rapturously.

“Which gives us the dilemma in its fullest force,” said the priest, speaking as if to the floor.  “She has no more place than if she had dropped upon a strange planet.”  He suddenly looked up with a brightness which almost as quickly passed away, and then he looked down again.  His happy thought was the cloister; but he instantly said to himself:  “They cannot have overlooked that choice, except intentionally—­which they have a right to do.”  He could do nothing but shake his head.

“And suppose you should suddenly die,” he said; he wanted to get at once to the worst.

The woman made a quick gesture, and buried her head in her handkerchief, with the stifled cry: 

“Oh, Olive, my daughter!”

“Well, Madame Delphine,” said Pere Jerome, more buoyantly, “one thing is sure:  we must find a way out of this trouble.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, looking heavenward, “if it might be!”

“But it must be!” said the priest.

“But how shall it be?” asked the desponding woman.

“Ah!” said Pere Jerome, with a shrug, “God knows.”

“Yes,” said the quadroone, with a quick sparkle in her gentle eye; “and I know, if God would tell anybody, He would tell you!”

The priest smiled and rose.

“Do you think so?  Well, leave me to think of it.  I will ask Him.”

“And He will tell you!” she replied.  “And He will bless you!” She rose and gave her hand.  As she withdrew it she smiled.  “I had such a strange dream,” she said, backing toward the door.

“Yes?”

“Yes.  I got my troubles all mixed up with your sermon.  I dreamed I made that pirate the guardian of my daughter.”

Pere Jerome smiled also, and shrugged.

“To you, Madame Delphine, as you are placed, every white man in this country, on land or on water, is a pirate, and of all pirates, I think that one is, without doubt, the best.”