There was great excitement in Rossignol over news of the attempted burglary at French Cross, and coupled with it was a mild indignation at Miss Gastonguay for allowing the disabled burglar to escape. She was saluted by a volley of remonstrances from every friend and acquaintance who called during the day to offer congratulations on her safe issue from the perils of the night. "Why did you allow him to hoodwink you?" inquired Mrs. Jonah Potts, warmly. "He didn't hoodwink me," said Miss Gastonguay, obstinately, "and he was my burglar, I had a right to do what I liked with him." "But one burglary is always followed by another. He will be breaking into our houses next." "He will not," said Miss Gastonguay, wearily. "I talked the matter over with him. He will attempt no more robberies in Rossignol." "You--talked--with--him!" ejaculated Mrs. Jonah, in long-drawn-out dismay. "With--that--wretch!" "No more wretch than you and me. He's made of the same flesh and blood. He steals in one way, we in another." "I--steal!" "Your husband does." "Thank you, Miss Gastonguay. Good afternoon." "Don't be precipitate. I don't mean to offend you. Your husband ought to give the mill hands a share in his profits." "They are well paid, Miss Gastonguay." "Well paid? Would you like to change places with them?" "Certainly not." "Then you're stealing from them. You are bound to look out for them. Your husband needn't give them as much as he takes himself, for he supplies the brains and they only the labour, but for charity's sake, Dorinda Potts, go and visit some of these cottages where children are pale and puny from lack of the necessities of life." Miss Gastonguay turned away to another caller, and Mrs. Jonah went uneasily home. Jane Gastonguay was haggard, almost broken down, and with what unusual softness had she spoken of the mill hands. The tiny seed of compassion stirred restlessly in the untilled ground of Mrs. Jonah's heart. Some day it would grow into a large and generous plant, and would extend its healing leaves over some unhappy mortals scorched and tortured for lack of a comforting shade. The young burglar, in the meantime, sat reading a novel in a parlour-car, his foot comfortably extended on a cushion, his ears tingling not at all as he became more and more of a topic of conversation in Rossignol. Prosperity and Tribulation, frightened into silence by Miss Gastonguay, said nothing of the manner of his going; and while the astute police of the town scoured the country to find some footprints of a limping burglar, the black thoroughbred cantered gaily homewards with hanging bridle, and whinnied joyfully as the coachman greeted him with a peculiar smile.