“Mademoiselle,” he said, “What is it troubles thee so profoundly?  Tell me; I am an old man and thy friend.”

“Monsieur, Monsieur, I ask your pardon,”—­she broke again into tears.  Fortunately, all the children were running off among the trees.—­“My sin is great:” 

“And what is the offence, my child?”

Josephte was silent, and the blood rushed over her face.

“I mean thee no ill, Mlle. Josephte.  Perhaps I can assist or advise thee.”

“They have promised me to the good God:  alas! and my heart thinks of a mortal!  I never could be like the others.—­I cannot forget,” and she broke completely down, sobbing again and again.  In a little while he spoke, hoping to soothe her.

“This may be no more than natural, my dear.”

“The natural heart, monsieur, is full of sin; and that is ten times worse for a woman.  O if I could love God alone!” and again she sobbed convulsively.

Trained as the highest type of Catholic mind, her imagination habitually pictured two worlds—­the one of exquisite spiritual light and purity, and spotless with the presence of saints, of the Virgin; of God the Father:  the other the world of mankind,—­the “world,” shadowed with wickedness and mourning, and whose pleasure is itself a sin.  She yearned towards the first; she sank back with acute sensitiveness from the second.  For her, to enter a church was to be overpowered with the communion of spirits; to think a single thought leading away from God was to commit a crime.  To know such a girl is to respect for ever the nun’s orders in which natures like hers take refuge.

“Josephte, ma’amselle,” said Chrysler very quietly and pleadingly, “do you not love Francois?”

The blood swept over her forehead again, and changed it once more from white to red.  The tears stopped in her eyes and she regarded him for a moment with an intense look.

“Francois loves you,” he proceeded.

He went on:  “Where is the difficulty?  Is it not very cruel to deny Francois your love?  Who made you promise that?”

“O sir, they willed that I should marry another.”

“It is only your father who wished you to marry Cuiller.”

“Madame la Seigneuresse wished me to enter the convent.”  Again she burst into bitter tears.  Rocking to and fro she continued with breaking heart, “I promised it to God himself.”

Chrysler had no wish to meddle with the belief of his new friends.  Here, however, it was a matter of humanity and common sense.  He could not let the young girl’s life be ruined.  He said:  “My child, le bon Dieu never asks the unreasonable.  Is not God kinder than you; and will he demand of you and Francois what you would not of another?”

“Monsieur, is it possible that that is true?” sobbed she, weeping freer.

“Does not your heart say so?” said he.

“I know not.  It must be so.  You speak like a priest.”