Renée shuddered at the fierce old man. She had used to feel afraid of him, but it seemed of late that she did not fear anything, the darkness of the night nor the thunder storms, when it appeared as if the town would be hurled into the river. What if he should really claim her, if—if—Oh, she would a hundred times rather stay with M. Marchand, even if he was kissing and caressing Wawataysee half the time. “I must go,” she said, rising. She had been trying to esteem him a little now that she was so lonely, but all the endeavor was like water spilled on the ground, and he had broken the bowl. “You will come again. No one shall cheat you out of your rights,” nodding vigorously. She turned away. First she thought she would walk along the river. It crept lazily to-day, yellow in the yellow sunshine. But when she reached the Rue Royale she turned into that. She did not care to pass the Renauds’—why was it that she could not love any one any more? that her heart seemed like lead in her bosom? So she went up to the Rue de l’Eglise straight on to the little church. She had not been Saturday afternoons of late. She knew the catechism and the prayers, and the children’s drawl seemed to spoil it for her. Sometimes people prayed for things and they came. Well, she was praying all the time for Uncle Gaspard’s return. Maybe it ought to be asked for in the church. She crept in softly. The little old place was very, very plain. Even the altar and the high altar had but few decorations at this time. There was a candle burning and it shed a pale glow. There was a basin of holy water, and she reverently made the sign of the cross with it. Then she knelt down on the floor and clasped her small hands. “O holy God,” she prayed, “O Christ, son of the holy God, listen to my sorrow, I beseech thee. Send back Uncle Gaspard, for my life is so lonely without him. Keep him safe from all danger.” It seemed so different to pray here. She would come every day now. This was God’s house. It was strange and she did not understand it a bit, but her heart felt lighter. The old garden was gay with bloom. Chatte came to meet her, arched his back and waved his tail like a flag, looking at her out of green, translucent eyes with a black bar straight up and down. She stooped and patted him and he began to purr with delight. He was as fond as she of sitting in Uncle Gaspard’s lap. Mère Lunde was pounding green grapes, great, luscious wild grapes, into a mash. Then she would strain out the seeds and make a most delicious jam with maple sugar. How fragrant the room was with the spicy scent! She went up and kissed her tenderly, and tears came to the woman’s eyes at the unexpected caress.