He thought he had won her, and raising her head, looked teasingly into her face and said softly, yet triumphantly: 

    “To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
    Or—­”

Adele wrenched her hand from him and started back.  Her face was ghastly pale, while her eyes dilated and shone with terror.  “If I do not enter the convent,” she said fearfully, “I shall be responsible for the loss of my father’s soul!”

For a space he looked at her as though he thought her mind was affected.  She read his look, and remembering that he did not understand, told him all her father’s dread story, how he had told her, not an hour ago, that if anything should happen that she did not take the veil, it would be impossible for him to believe.

She told him, too, that even were her parents willing she should marry him, she could never be perfectly happy.  Her conscience would never cease to upbraid her; from her childhood she had been taught to look forward to being a nun.  She kissed the cross passionately as she ceased.

He noted the religious light in her eyes, and something told him that it was useless to argue; that nothing he could say would break down her strong religious convictions.  The sudden revulsion from great happiness to despair was bitter indeed, and sitting down he buried his face in his hands.

Adele walked rapidly away a few steps, then turned and looked back.  His dejected attitude smote her sorely.  Again she turned, as though she would leave him, but turned again and looked at him pityingly.  Well she knew that in the long quiet years which were to come, that lonely figure in the quaint garden would haunt her, and that the memory of his great sorrow would be the heavy cross she would have to bear as long as life lasted.

So quietly did she steal behind him, that he was not aware she had returned.  Her lips moved as though she were about to speak to him, but no sound came from them.  It was so hard not to lean forward and rest her hand on the thick dark hair, and tell him how much easier it would be for her to bear her lot if he would only say he forgave her and would try and think kindly of her.  It came to her at last how, perhaps, she might ease his sorrows.  She unclasped the little silver crucifix from around her neck, kissed it, and then gently slipped it into the pocket of his coat, which hung over the side of the bench.  She then turned and fled along the grass to the house.

* * * * *

Once more the sound of church bells floated into the little cottage and fell upon the expectant ears of farmer Frechette and his wife, while a proud look lit up their faces.

“At last!” said the old man, exultantly, going to the window and looking at the church and the convent nestling at its side.  The bells no longer mocked him, and he had ceased to hate them.  Once more he stretched his gaunt arm toward the glistening tower.  “The Church has not deceived us,” he said humbly.  Then he turned to his wife, who was waiting for him at the door.