“Let us go in,” she said to her mother.

Madame Sauviat and her daughter sat down on a crib in the lower room, which was intended for a stable.

“My child,” they heard the rector saying, “I do not blame you,—­you are quite excusable; but your return may be the cause of irreparable evil; she is the soul of this region.”

“Ah! monsieur, then I had better go away to-night,” replied the stranger.  “Though—­I must tell you—­to leave my country once more is death to me.  If I had stayed a day longer in that horrible New York, where there is neither hope, nor faith, nor charity, I should have died without being ill.  The air I breathed oppressed my chest, food did not nourish me, I was dying while full of life and vigor.  My sufferings ceased the moment I set foot upon the vessel to return.  I seemed to be already in France.  Oh! monsieur, I saw my mother and one of my sisters-in-law die of grief.  My grandfather and grandmother Tascheron are dead; dead, my dear Monsieur Bonnet, in spite of the prosperity of Tascheronville,—­for my father founded a village in Ohio and gave it that name.  That village is now almost a town, and a third of all the land is cultivated by members of our family, whom God has constantly protected.  Our tillage succeeded, our crops have been enormous, and we are rich.  The town is Catholic, and we have managed to build a Catholic church; we do not allow any other form of worship, and we hope to convert by our example the many sects which surround us.  True religion is in a minority in that land of money and selfish interests, where the soul is cold.  Nevertheless, I will return to die there, sooner than do harm or cause distress to the mother of our Francis.  Only, Monsieur Bonnet, take me to-night to the parsonage that I may pray upon his tomb, the thought of which has brought me here; the nearer I have come to where he is, the more I felt myself another being.  No, I never expected to feel so happy again as I do here.”

“Well, then,” said the rector, “come with me now.  If there should come a time when you might return without doing injury, I will write to you, Denise; but perhaps this visit to your birthplace will stop the homesickness, and enable you to live over there without suffering—­”

“Oh! to leave this country, now so beautiful!  What wonders Madame Graslin has done for it!” she exclaimed, pointing to the lake as it lay in the moonlight.  “All this fine domain will belong to our dear Francis.”

“You shall not go away, Denise,” said Madame Graslin, who was standing at the stable door.

Jean-Francois Tascheron’s sister clasped her hands on seeing the spectre which addressed her.  At that moment the pale Veronique, standing in the moonlight, was like a shade defined upon the darkness of the open door-way.  Her eyes alone shone like stars.

“No, my child, you shall not leave the country you have come so far to see again; you shall be happy here, or God will refuse to help me; it is He, no doubt, who has brought you back.”