“My friend,” returned Father Olivier, “you have been in our sacristy, and seen our parish records kept here by the hands of priests for a hundred years.  You want to make what you call revivals; I am content with survivals, with keeping alive the faith.  Yet you think I am the devil.  As for me, I do not say all heretics ought to be burned.”

The preacher laughed again with Father Olivier, but did not fail to add,—­

“You say what I think better than I could say it myself.”

The priest left his Protestant brother with a wave of the hand and a smiling shrug, and passed on his way along the array of booths.  His presence was a check on many a rustic drinker.  His glance, dropped here and there, saved more than one sheep from the shearer.  But his own face fell, and he stopped in astonishment, when an awkward figure was pushed against him, and he recognized his upland lamb.

“Jean Lozier, what are you doing here?” said Father Olivier.

Jean had dodged him many times.  The lad stood still, cap in hand, looking down.  Nothing could make him sorry he had come to Kaskaskia; but he expected to do penance for it.

“Where is your grandfather?”

“He is at home, father.”

“Did you leave that blind old man alone, to wander out and fall over the bluff?”

“I left him, father, but I tied him to a joist in the ceiling with a long rope.”

“To hang himself?”

“No, father; it is a very long rope.”

“And what will the old man do when he grows hungry?”

“His food for the day is on the table.”

“My son, my son!”

“Father,” exclaimed the boy with passion, “I was never in Kaskaskia before.  And Colonel Menard lent me a pony to ride after my young master.  I have no pleasure but watching the lights of the town at night.”  The great fellow began to sob.  “If my grandfather would but come here, I could keep him well.  I have been watching how they do things in Kaskaskia.  But no, he will stay on the hills.  And when I could stand it no more I tied him and came.”

Father Olivier had looked into the eyes of soldiers and seen the sick longing for some particular place which neither courage nor resolution seems able to control.  He saw even more than this in Jean Lozier’s eyes.  He saw the anguish of a creature about to be driven back from its element to another in which it cannot develop.  The priest had hitherto used Jean’s fondness for the capital as means of moral discipline.  But the sympathy which gave so many simple natures into his literal keeping enlightened him now.

“My son,” said Father Olivier, “I see how it is with you better than I ever did before.  You shall come and live in Kaskaskia.  I will myself forbid your grandfather to keep you longer on the hills.”

“But, father, he says he will die in a great town.”

“Then, my son, the crown of a little martyrdom is yours.  Will you wear it until this old man ends his days, and then come to Kaskaskia as your reward?  Or will you come trampling down your duty, and perhaps shortening the life of your father’s father?  I will not lay any penance on you for following this strong desire.”