“Oh, no, no!” And then the poor little story came out in an incoherent fashion. It was selfish, it was covetous, it was unjust. She saw that, now that she put it in words, and it sent a pang of shame and anguish through her whole being. Was this the return for all the affection he had given? “Child,” said the low, sweet voice, “I think he will not love thee less because another comes into his heart. It is a good, generous heart. I know it well. And thou must cast out the selfish fear and give love for love. God shares His with all His creatures, and asks first a devoted heart, then the wide love for one’s neighbor. No grudging heart ever yet had peace. And the more happiness one scattereth the more returneth to thee. The more Christlike thy heart becomes, the greater will be thy desire to do for others, and in this will come the recompense. Trust thy God and then thy trust will grow in all His creatures. Narrow thy life, and when the one light fails all will be darkness. Thou hast gone but a little way forward and there are many lessons to learn before thou wilt reach the end, but the divinest of all is unselfish love.” Could she be brave enough to put aside her own intense, selfish love? If another love made Uncle Gaspard happier—— They went out on the step of the old church porch, and he said: “You will come again, daughter?” And she replied: “I will come every day and pray for a new heart.” CHAPTER XVIII A FINE ADJUSTMENT Gaspard Denys was out by the gate waiting, quite at a loss to know what could keep his little girl, and wondering what had made her so quiet and indifferent of late. Had she really cared more for André than she knew? She must miss him, of course, for although he had touches of sentiment now and then, he was bright and very much given to the amusing rather than the serious side of every-day occurrences. But he was earnest enough where that quality was needed. And he had been Renée’s devoted slave. Her hands were clasped, her shoulders drooped a little and her step was slow. Gaspard went to meet her, touched by the piteousness of her aspect. “My little darling——” She had not been exactly weeping, but her eyes had filled and overflowed. He would not have seen it in the gathering darkness, but he kissed amid the tears on her cheek. “Renée, where have you been?” in a gentle tone. “You were not at the Marchands’.” “I was up at the church with Father Lemoine.” Had she some confidence to give the priest that she withheld from him? And he thought he knew all her simple heart. “Renée, what is the matter? You are not happy. You are not really ill, either. Something troubles you.” The girl was silent, but he heard her fluttering breath. He took her hand in his. It was cold and spiritless. It did not curl about his fingers in her usual caressing fashion. “Has some one grown nearer and dearer than I? You need not be afraid——”