“Sir, we all have our weak points and our strong ones.  I’m no polemic, I!—­I prefer meddling with things that will not bring me into trouble.  There was a factory burnt down last night—­”

“Ah!” groaned my father.

“Some say both the partners were burnt; others that one of them is at a distance.  Some think the factory was set on fire on purpose; others that it was an accident.  Nothing remains of it but the outer walls and a smoking heap of ruins.”

My father covered his face with his hand.

“Then, again,” pursued La Croissette, “that worthy old Monsieur Laccassagne, unable to stand the deprivation of sleep any longer, has conformed—­”

“Has he, though!” cried my father, with a start.  “Oh, how sad a fall!”

“Outwardly, only outwardly,” said La Croissette.  “The poor old gentleman was driven almost out of his senses by that deafening drumming.  ’You shall have rest now,’ said the bishop.  ‘Alas!’ replied he, ’I look for no rest on this side heaven; and may God grant that its doors may not be closed against me by this act.’”

“Poor old man! poor Monsieur Laccassagne!” ejaculated my father.  “Well might he say so.”

“Yes, but what reasonable person can suppose the doors of heaven will be closed against him by it?” said La Croissette.  “The Lord is a God of mercy—­”

“But will by no means clear the guilty,” said my father.

“And He looketh not to the outward appearance, but to the heart,” said La Croissette.

“That expression applies to the personal, bodily appearance, which none of us can help,” said my father, “not to the pretence of believing one thing, when we believe, its opposite.  I mourn over the backsliding of my old friend.  Better had it been to suffer affliction for a season.

“So the virtuous lady his wife thought,” said La Croissette.  “She escaped in the disguise of a servant, and is now wandering in the open fields.”

“Ah, what sorrow!  May the good Lord support her under it!”

“Ay, and the many other women who are in similar case.  Numbers of them are at this instant cowering in the cold and darkness in ditches and under hedges.”

“Monsieur Laccassagne might well say he could hope for no rest on this side heaven,” said my father, bitterly.  “How can he rest, knowing that his excellent wife, accustomed to every comfort, is now an outcast for her faith—­the faith which he has denied?”

“Well, I wish I could have brought you more cheerful news,” said La Croissette, rising.  “In truth, you need it, in this dismal hole, to keep up your spirits.  Tell me, now, good sir, how long do you expect to be able, you and yours, to hold out?”

“Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof,” said my father.  “Thanks be to God, He does not require us to dwell on what may be in store for our chastening.  He says explicitly, ’Take no thought for the morrow—­the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.’  Words how kind and how wise!”