"Et puis?" said he, taking a cigar.
"Et puis", I pursued, "he underwent calamities which one did not pity—bore them in a spirit one did not admire—endured wrongs for which one felt no sympathy; finally took the unchristian revenge of heaping coals of fire on his adversary's head".
"You have not told me all", said he.
"Nearly all, I think: I have indicated the heads of Père Silas's chapters".
"You have forgotten one—that which touched on the pupil's lack of affection—on his hard, cold, monkish heart".
"True: I remember now. Père Silas did say that his vocation was almost that of a priest—that his life was considered consecrated".
"By what bonds or duties?"
"By the ties of the past and the charities of the present".
"You have, then, the whole situation?"
"I have now told monsieur all that was told me".
Some meditative minutes passed.
"Now, Mademoiselle Lucy, look at me, and with that truth which I believe you never knowingly violate, answer me one question. Raise your eyes; rest them on mine; have no hesitation; fear not to trust me—I am a man to be trusted".
I raised my eyes.
"Knowing me thoroughly now—all my antecedents, all my responsibilities—having long known my faults, can you and I still be friends?"
"If monsieur wants a friend in me, I shall be glad to have a friend in him".
"But a close friend I mean—intimate and real—kindred in all but blood? Will Miss Lucy be the sister of a very poor, fettered, burdened, encumbered man?"
I could not answer him in words, yet I suppose I did answer him; he took my hand, which found comfort, in the shelter of his. His friendship was not a doubtful, wavering benefit—a cold, distant hope—a sentiment so brittle as not to bear the weight of a finger: I at once felt (or thought I felt) its support like that of some rock.
"When I talk of friendship, I mean true friendship", he repeated emphatically; and I could hardly believe that words so earnest had blessed my ear; I hardly could credit the real-
