"Probably you do not understand this," I hastened to add; "and I should not blame you. But you, in holy orders from young manhood, with your mind and time engrossed in spiritual things, have no intimate knowledge of the powerful call of man to woman, and woman to man. It has come to me unexpectedly, swiftly, surely; here in the wilderness. In the city it passed me by. But I truly love the little wild ma'm'selle. Listen to my plan. I intend to take her far along the road to education and refinement; I intend to develop the great good which lurks smothered in her mind and soul; then, if she will, I shall marry her. That is my reason for asking you to tell me of that man." Father John was convinced that I spoke the truth. I could see it before he replied. "Ze--ze _aieul_, ze _aieule_; has m'sieu tol' zem?" I stared at him bewilderedly. "Ze madame an' ze m'sieu she live wiz!" he burst out, desperately. "How call you zem?" "Granny and Gran'fer--her grandparents!" I exclaimed. "_Bien!..._ Well zen?" "I have not told them. I have not told Lessie. I did not know it myself until last night." "_Soit._ But ze secret, m'sieu, is zeirs." "Is not the girl concerned, my good sir?" I demanded. "Celeste?" "Celeste!" "Ze wil' ma'm'selle you call Lessie. I chris'en 'er myself, m'sieu; her name Celeste." "And these boors have corrupted it to Lessie!" I almost shouted. "Zey couldn't 'member Celeste," smiled Father John. For a time I was silent, gazing at that vision in my mind which bore the sweet name of Celeste instead of the meaningless one of Lessie. "Has she, then, no rights in the matter?" I persisted, and at the words I knew my voice had changed. Father John's candid and matter-of-fact revelation had filled me all up, somehow. I am aware there was no good reason why this should be, but people deeply in love have a constant abhorrence of anything and everything remotely bordering on reason. "Should she, m'sieu, seek ze inf'mation, I sink I should tell 'er." Sweetly grave and courteous were the words, and even in my impatience I recognized their justness. "Very well, father. But I must ask you another question which I trust you can answer without offense to your conscience. Was Lessie's--was Celeste's father a man of learning; a man who moved along the higher walks of life, or was he simply a countryman?" Only for a moment he hesitated. "He was ze gran' gen'leman in manner--ze scholar--ze sinker. His heart was black!" "It must have been," I breathed, as I rose. My host again followed me to the low stone step at the porch entrance, protesting against my departure and begging me to stay for dinner, which came at noon. I told him I would come again, and I meant it. "You have been very kind," I said, in farewell, "and I want to thank you for the things you told me. In time Celeste will come with her demands, trust me for that." "Vair well, m'sieu!" he cried, twisting his face into a maze of goodhumored wrinkles.