“Out alas! my faith is ever true.”

She cared no more for singing, for every song she liked was associated with Maurice, and each one seemed now to have the same burden; and when she played, it was no longer gay airs, or even the wonderful ’Morceaux de Salon,’ of incredible noise and difficulty, which had been required of her as musical exhibitions, but always some melancholy andante or reverie which seemed to come to her fingers without choice or intention.

One day when she had gone for her solitary walk, and Mrs. Costello all alone was lying on the sofa, trying to read, but really considering with some uneasiness the condition of their affairs, Madame Everaert knocked at the door.

She brought with her a fresh bunch of flowers just bought in the market, but she was as usual overflowing with talk.

“It is extremely hot,” she said, fanning herself with her pocket handkerchief, “and I met mademoiselle going out.  It is excessively hot.”

Mrs. Costello looked uneasy.

“Do you think it is too hot to be out?” she asked.

“No.  Perhaps not.  Certainly, mademoiselle has gone to the ramparts, and the walk there is not nearly so hot and fatiguing as down to the beach.  Mademoiselle is very fond of the sea.”

“Yes, she enjoys it greatly.  It is new to her.”

“One day, not long ago, I was coming along the top of the ramparts,—­madame has not been there?”

“No.”

“There is a broad space on the top, and it is covered with soft green turf quite pleasant to sit down upon.  Very few people pass, and you can see a long way out to sea.  Well, one day I came along there, because upon the grass it was pleasanter walking than on the stones in the street, and I saw Mademoiselle Lucia who was sitting quite quiet, looking out far away.  I came very near, but she never saw me.  I thought I would speak to her just to say how beautiful the day was, and the air so sweet, when I saw just in time madame, that she was crying.  Great big tears were falling down on her hands, and she never seemed to feel them even.  Mon Dieu, madame!  I could hardly keep from crying myself, she looked so sad; but I went by softly, and she never saw me.  Mademoiselle regrets England very much.”

“She has never been in England.  She was born in Canada, and that, you know, is very far away.”

“In Canada!  Is it possible?  Does madame come from Canada?”

“Yes.”

“And it is in Canada our good father Paul has suffered so much!  Oh, the terrible country!”

“Why should it be terrible?  I have seen Father Paul, and he does not look as if he had suffered much.”

“Not now, Dieu merci.  But long ago.  Madame, he went to convert the savages—­the Indians.”

Mrs. Costello started.  Father Paul was a Jesuit priest—­an old venerable man—­old enough, as it flashed into her mind, to have been one of the Moose Island missionaries.  Yet such an idea was improbable—­there had no doubt been many other Jesuit missions besides the one where Christian had been trained.