For a long time nothing could be heard in the kitchen but the loud ticking of the yellow-faced clock, hung high above the old deal table, and the occasional murmur of voices in the sick girl’s room.  Unable any longer to sit and endure the suspense, the farmer rose, and began, fretfully, to walk to and fro.  Finally he stopped at the window, and his gaze travelled across the great expanse of white, beautified by the pale light of the early moon, to the tin-clad church tower in the distance, which shone like burnished silver as the moon’s rays fell upon it.

“If she dies there is no Virgin and the priests have deceived us,” he said, looking steadily at the tower; “but if she lives”—­and he straightened out his bent figure—­“I shall die happy in the faith.  I will leave money to help build the new church which Father Sauvalle so long has wished to have built.”  Hearing a slight noise behind him, he turned quickly.  His wife, followed by the doctor, was entering the room.

“Well?” he queried, in a peculiar tone, looking at the doctor as though he knew he would tell him there was no hope.

“She certainly is very ill, but I cannot agree with Doctor Prenoveau, if he says there is no hope.”  The words were kindly spoken, for he had noticed how the old man trembled and how poorly assumed was his air of defiance.

“You really think she may not die, doctor?” he asked, almost incredulously.

“I really think not.”

Farmer Frechette sank heavily on his chair.  “I am beginning to feel old, very old, doctor,” he said weakly.

Never before had Doctor Chalmers taken so keen an interest in a case.  Inch by inch he contested with death for the life of the young girl upon whose recovery was founded so many hopes.

It was a beautiful June day when, for the first time since Adele’s illness, she ventured out of the house, supported on the young doctor’s arm, and walked as far as the little garden at the back of the house.  Very lovely she looked in her light-colored, soft, clinging dress, large brimmed straw hat, the health color struggling back to her cheeks, her sweet lips parted, and her heavily fringed dark eyes lighted up with hope and happiness.

Among his friends, Doctor Chalmers was known as a man not prone to many words.  Could they but have heard him this afternoon as he sat by her side on the quaint garden seat, they simply would have been astounded.

It had come so gradually, this love of his, that before he was quite aware, it had taken possession of his heart so that no reasoning could have forced it to withdraw.  He saw no reason, indeed, why he should wish to banish it; besides being beautiful and winning, she had received an excellent education, and was in every way fitted to be his wife.  Of Adele’s dedication to the Church from her birth, he knew nothing, so that no misgivings assailed him.  Little wonder then that his heart should be light, and that the primitive garden should appear to him the most beautiful spot he had ever seen.