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had preferred a petition to succeed as tenant to his dying relation. The Minister was received with the same sort of respect which a Greek might have shown to Apollo, had the god condescended to pay him a visit in person. Laurent waited outside. The place was full of sad memories for him, for he had often been there when it had been occupied by the connections of Arnaud's wife. Where were they all now? Wandering as exiles, dependent on the charity of strangers; some of them, perhaps, still lingering in prison, or perhaps among the unhappy number of those who had conformed at Turin and Lucerna, and had found by hard experience the nature of those tender mercies exercised by the wicked.

A little boy and girl came out of the house and looked very hard at Laurent, and the handsome trappings of the mule. Laurent, who had not seen a child to speak to in so long a time, coaxed the little ones to come to him, and they were presently chatting away to him with perfect freedom, almost making him forget the sad associations of the place and time in the unwonted pleasure of their society. The minister was detained for some time in hearing the confession of the sick man. The poor mother of the family went about mechanically, setting out the best the house afforded for the refreshment of her honored guest.

"Can you tell me anything the holy man would like that this poor house can furnish?" she said, respectfully to Laurent. I do not know your young reverence's name."

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I dare say he will take nothing, or at any rate nothing but a cup of milk."

"He is a holy man, is he not?" said Madame Martianne, in an awe-struck whisper.

"They say," said Lucile, "that when he prays he is lifted up in the air and can fly over the trees like St. Francis. Do you think he would do it if we asked him? I should like to see him fly."

"Lucile," said the little boy-a serious, considerate kind of child-"I don't much believe that story; and if the Father can fly, what does he want of a mule? Did you ever see him fly, Monsieur?"

"Never," said Laurent, promptly. "I should be well satisfied if I could see him able to walk."

Father Francis came out of the sick room just in time to hear little Carlino's question and Laurent's answer.

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'My little son," he said, putting his hand on the boy's head, "Who has told you such foolish stories?"

"Reverend Father," said Carlino, "why should you not fly, if St. Francis did? I am sure you are as holy as he?"

Now this story of the saint, and others much more remarkable, were and are authorized by the infallible Church, and Father Francis had either to leave Carlino his belief in the saint's aerial excursions, or say that the authorized legend was an old woman's story. It was rather an embarrassing dilemma before a Protestant, and the minister wisely perhaps avoided the subject.

He made no reply to the little boy, being saved from the trouble of doing so by Madame Martianne, who with the utmost reverence besought him to take something such as she could offer, apologizing for everything, as is the custom of good housewives all the world over.

Father Francis was too truly courteous to mortify her by entire refusal, after all her pains. He took a cup of milk and a bit of bread, and as he did so, remarked:

"Your husband is not so ill as you think, my daughter. The fever has

* "St. Francis and the Franciscans," page 258. Sometimes he went quite out of sight.

taken a turn, and if you are careful of him he will recover."

"Ah, your Reverence, do you really think so?" said Madame Martianne.

"I do, indeed; but he must be careful of a relapse."

Madame Martianne threw herself on her knees at the priest's feet.

"It is a miracle," she exclaimed, really believing what she said, for Father Francis had little idea of the amount of capital the monks had contrived to make out of his merits. "I will give a wax candle as tall as my Carlino to the chapel. Ah, what am I, that such a saint should come under my roof?" and she kissed his feet.

"My daughter! my daughter!" said Father Francis, distressed at being made an idol of, and knowing well how much trouble the report of a miracle would make for him. "I had nothing to do with the matter. The fever has left him, that is all. Pray go to him, and I entreat you not to say there has been anything out of the common way in the case, or that I had anything to do with it."

Ah, we know your blessed humility, your reverence," continued Madame Martianne. "The monks say there was a barbet at the convent; a most violent, frightful blasphemer; so possessed with the devil that he had to be chained up, and that your reverence only laid your hand on his head, and that he was converted, and became like a lamb on the instant."

Laurent hardly knew whether to laugh or be angry at this remarkable version of his own story.

"And who told you that?" said Father Francis, coloring slightly, and insisting that his worshipper should stand up.

"All the Fathers say so, your reverence," said Madam Martianne, confidently. "Brother Boniface told my good man he saw it himself, and promised to ask your reverence's prayers for him if he would give him a flask of our wine for the holy service. Did he never do it?" asked the good woman, beginning to suspect that they had not received the worth of their offering.

"My prayers most assuredly you shall have, my daughter, and I would ask for yours in return, but they are not to be bought," said Father Francis, with a look that boded no good to poor Brother Boniface.

"No?" said simple Madame Martianne. "Well now the brotherhood said that while you were with them, your good works would go to the convent; and they would recommend no one to you who did not make some offering."

"The mischief is in the people to-day," thought Laurent. "Cannot any one open their mouth but out must come something to trouble him! To think of their making money out of the dear soul's goodness!"

"You have been deceived, my daughter," said Father Francis, with dignity. "I will see that it does not happen again. My son, the day is passing; let us go. And my daughter, I command you to say nothing about any miraculous cure."

But even as he spoke, he knew how useless the command would be. Laurent, anxious to shorten a scene which he felt was distressing to his protector, brought up the mule to the door, and with Madame Martianne's blessings and praises sounding after them, the two were soon on their way down the steep path.

"Have you known anything about this matter, Laurent?" said the Provincial at last.

"No, Father; only that they have said you could work miracles. You must know they all call you a saint."

"I!" said Father Francis, half impatient, half weary. "But I will put a stop to this folly, and worse than folly. It shall go no farther."

"There!" thought Laurent, vexed. "Now there is another trouble; and just as sure as he tries to make them do anything like rational beings, or to put a stop to their lies and extortions, they will all turn against him, unless it may be Brother Augustine."

Laurent," asked the Provincial, " did you tell the good woman or the children that you were not a Catholic?"

"No, Father, they did not ask me! O me!" said Laurent, speaking on the im

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"How I wish I could carry you away somewhere where you might be quiet, and not be perplexed and troubled with all these matters."

"Every man must bear his own burden, my boy," said Father Francis, sadly, "but I feel sometimes as if mine were beyond my strength. The idea of being made merchandise of in this way," said the priest, who was absolutely sick at heart with the irresistible and growing feeling that the whole system of his order was a mistake.

66

'But, dear Father, it is not my affair to speak."

"For heaven's sake, Laurent, speak out," said the minister, who was unusually moved. "O, if you knew the comfort it is to hear one human being speak and act without disguise, and to feel that you have one heart near you that you can trust!"

"I was only thinking, dear Father, that this sort of thing is only what the monks have always done, and why is it any worse to receive offerings for the prayers of living saints than for dead ones, or than it is to sell masses?"

Father Francis made no answer; and Laurent glancing up, was startled to see the look of weariness and faintness, the trouble and anxiety that rested on his friend's face.

"Dearest Father," he said, "do not let us talk of it any more. All you have to do now is to get well. Let us turn aside somewhere and rest, can we not? O, I wish I could take every stone out of your way."

be safe enough, and we shall find some pleasant place to sit. Lean on me, and take the staff; see I brought it with me; it is the only earthly thing I can call my own. Thanks to you and the Chevalier for it. I fear you have undertaken too much, and that I have pained you by my talk, but you would make me speak. Sometimes I almost wish I could conform, just to please you and Father Paul."

"I wish you could, Laurent," said the Minister, "but after all, that would be but a poor reason for leaving your father's faith."

Laurent could not but think this a very odd remark, but as he went on carefully assisting his companion over the rough way, Father Francis suddenly asked: "You had some little conversation with the Chevalier the day he was here, had you not?"

"Yes, Reverend Father, I went on an errand into the parlor for Father Paul just as the Chevalier was going."

"And what did he say to you?" asked the priest, with anxiety.

6.

He said he knew about my father, and that he was a brave man, though a heretic, and persisted in our faith to the last," said Laurent proudly.

"Anything more?"

Poor Laurent was sorely tempted to indulge in a mental reservation himself.

"He was very kind, Father, but it was only a few minutes that we were together. Ah, here is a nice place for you to rest,' he said, pausing where a huge pile of moss-covered rocks rose above a little space of grass. "Here is a place where you can sit as in a cushioned chair, and this great block will shade you from the sun. Where is it that it speaks of the shadow of a great rock in a weary land?'"

"I think perhaps you could tell better than I," said the Minister. "My son, why will you not let me know what the Let Chevalier said to you?"

"No one can do that, my son, no one," said the minister. "I must walk my way alone, and I know too well what its end will be. But we will rest for a little while, for indeed I am very tired. us turn aside into this glen, we shall be shaded from the sun."

"There is no track for the mule, dear Father. This is the Liozza Torrente, and a wild place it is that ravine-but if you can walk, I will fasten the mule here behind this pile of stones. She will

"He said the Curé of Prali was an animal," said Laurent, throwing himself on the grass at Father Francis' feet. "And was that all?"

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"Did not believe what, Laurent?" "He said you had preached the persecution, and that you had sided with the French Minister, and that if you knew whose son I was, you would not be so kind, but indeed I know better," said Laurent, troubled.

"And if that were so, would you hate me?" said the monk, without looking at his companion.

"Why, Father, of course not; I should be the most ungrateful creature living if I did not love you."

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"My son, said the Provincial, very quietly, the Chevalier told you no more than the truth; not so much as the truth, probably. I do not say that I brought about the ruin and destruction of all you hold dear, for it would have been done without me, and my influence is much overrated. But I did use such power as I had toward the publishing and execution of the edict. I thought at the time I did my duty; I fear now I was serving my own ambition; but Laurent, the thought of what I have done, or helped to do, is killing me."

"But you did not know how cruel and wicked they were, I am sure," said Laurent, whose first impulse was to excuse and comfort.

"And you can forgive me-you whom I helped to make an orphan, and that in a manner so cruel! Ah, Laurent, can you think of your mother and father, and yet forgive the man who used such gifts as God had given him to help on this accursed work?"

"I do, indeed, dear Father, if you care for my forgiveness, and I am sure they would, too,' said Laurent, kissing his hand. 66 Beside, what have you not done for me? Was I not sick and in prison, and did you not come to me, and have you not been a father to me really?"

"My own boy!" said the poor priest. "Ah! if you knew how I have dreaded to have you find out the truth, lest you should turn away from me; and you do not know it all yet."

"Do not let us talk of it more," said Laurent, who hoped that now that his protector had spoken the cause of his trouble, his mind would be more at ease.

"Is not this a sweet place, dear Father? I remember it well now, though I did not think where we were coming when I brought you here. This great stone here is over my grandfather's grave. He died before I was born, but I came here once with my father."

"Buried here!" said the Provincial, much moved, as it seemed.

"Yes, Father, he died suddenly, I have heard my father say when he was at Villar once. You know we Vaudois are not allowed to bury our dead in enclosed ground, or to put anything over their graves, and they laid him here because it was such a quiet place; and they thought this great pile of rocks would be a sort of memorial. Here it is, this little hollow in the ground."

"When did he die?" asked the Provincial, shading his face with his hand.

"In 1667, Reverend Father. He was never the same man, they said, after his younger son was stolen away and died in the hospital at Pignerol. Why, if there is not the mule got loose! Wait one moment, Father; she will start off home, and then what should we do?"

Laurent darted down the hillside after the mule. It cost him some trouble before he could catch the animal and fasten her up again, but he finally succeeded, and out of breath, came slowly toward the pile of rocks.

"She cost me a pretty chase," he said, but stopped in amazement at the sight before him.

Father Francis had thrown himself on the ground beside the grave; his head was bowed on the great gray stone, and he was shaken with convulsive sobs from head to foot. He seemed in an agony of grief, upon which Laurent hesitated to intrude. His emotion, however, was so extreme, he seemed so utterly miserable, that the boy's heart ached for him, and he came gently forward and knelt beside him.

"Dearest Father," he said, distressed at his protector's trouble, "what is it? O that I could comfort you! Dear Father," and he ventured to put his arm about his friend and draw him toward himself, “you will make yourself worse if you cry so.'

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The priest suffered his head to drop on and converts. "But Father, did you Laurent's shoulder, and without reject-know who I was when you came to me?” ing the boy's caress, gave himself up, as it seemed, to the very abandonment of sorrow. Such intense emotion in one usually so self-restrained, moved Laurent himself almost to tears.

Yes, Laurent. It was by an accident I learned you were at Villar. I came there only in time to save you, and I did not mean you should ever know who I was; but I am weak, and this place, and the memories it called up, were too much for me. There, I will be myself

"Dear Father," he said distressed, "it is past, it is over, and you did what you thought right. Do not weep so bit-again-Philip Leidet is dead, my dear," terly."

"Nay, Laurent, let me be," said Father Francis, as soon as he could speak. "Even such a one as may weep over his father's grave."

Laurent was silent a moment in utter amazement. The monk's unguarded words at once explained many things which had seemed mysterious. The priest's strong attachment to himself, his fear lest his affection should be noticed; looks and tones which had perplexed him with vague resemblances, came back to his memory, as family traits which he had noted in his father, and unconsciously practiced himself.

"Reverend Father," he said at last, "can it be possible that you are my uncle, Philip Leidet?"

"Alas! alas!" he said, "I am indeed that most wretched man! And now, you, the sole one of my blood left on earth-my own brother's own son-you despise me as an apostate."

It was with a strange mixture of feeling that Laurent heard his uncle speak. He felt for a moment as if his beloved Father Francis had been suddenly taken away from him, and that a stranger had come in his place. Then there was a thrill of delight at finding himself not wholly alone in the world, and curiously enough, a certain sense of pride in the distinction which his uncle had achieved by his talents and personal character.

"But they said that Philip Leidet died," he said, still supporting his friend in a close embrace.

"No, my Laurent. Would to God that he had!”

"Dearest Father, for I can call you nothing else, O how sorry I am that I said what I did," said Laurent, remembering his own words about persecutors

he said with a long sigh. "There is no one here but the Franciscan.”

"And, dear uncle, I have learned to love him so well, that I almost feel as if what shall I say?-that I could not give him up even for my dear father's brother; but it all seems so strange."

"And you will not turn away from

me?"

"No, dearest Father; who on earth should I turn to? And if you thought it right to change your religion,-0 Father, why would you make me say what I did?" said Laurent, who was

more anxious at that moment to comfort his uncle than he was for truth in the abstract. "I wish I could help you."

"And you have no word of reproach for me-for me, whom your friends would rank with Judas? And do you remember that I gave my voice and influence for the edict by which those of my own blood and name have been banished, and imprisoned, and murdered in the field and on the scaffold?"

The Provincial wrung his hands in an agony of remorse, and his look and tone were such that Laurent almost feared he was losing his mind.

"Dearest Father," he said, gently restraining him, "do you think your kinsman would add one feather's weight to your burden? O how you have suffered, and there was no one to help you. But why did you not tell me?"

"I dared not, my darling, lest you should betray yourself. You do not know your own danger. My precious oue, my poor Laurent's own boy," said the monk, giving free course for once to the feelings of his nature. "You do not know how every hour and day has knit you closer to my heart, nor how I dreaded to have you know the truth, lest you should hate

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