The reply seemed to extinguish Bruno's interest. For a moment, as if his thoughts were far elsewhere, he played with a morsel of sewing-silk which he had picked up from the floor. "The Lord is wiser than men," he said at last, as if that were the conclusion to which his unseen thoughts had led him. "Yes; and better," answered the young Jewess. "And better," dreamily repeated the priest. "We shall know that one day, when we wake up to see His Face." "Amen," said Belasez. "`When we awake up after Thy likeness,' saith David the Prophet, `we shall be satisfied with it.'" "`Satisfied!' echoed Bruno. Art thou satisfied, my daughter?" The answering "No!" appeared to come from the depths of Belasez's heart. "Shall I tell thee wherefore? There is but one thing that satisfies the soul of man. Neither in earth nor in Heaven is any man satisfied with aught else. My child, dost thou know what that is?" Belasez looked up, her own face working a little now. "You mean," she said, "the Man whom ye call Christ." "I mean Him." "I know nothing about Him." And Belasez resumed her embroidery, as if that were of infinitely greater consequence. "Dost thou know much about happiness?" "Happiness!" exclaimed the girl. "I know what mirth is. Do you mean that? Or, I know what it is to feel as if one cared for nothing. Is that your meaning?" "Happiness," said Bruno, "is what thy King meant when he said, `I shall be satisfied with it.' Dost thou know that?" Belasez drew a long breath, and shook her head sadly. "No," she said. "I have never known that." "Because thou hast never known Jesus Christ." "I know He said, `I am the life,'" responded the girl slowly. "And life is not worth much. Perhaps it might be,--if one were satisfied." "Poor child! Is life not worth much to thee?" answered the priest in a pitying tone. "And thou art very young--not much over twenty." "I am under twenty. I am just eighteen." Once more Bruno's face was convulsed. "Just eighteen!" he said. "Yes--Licorice's child! _Yet_ she had no pity. Aye me--just eighteen!" "Do you know my mother?" said Belasez in accents of mingled surprise and curiosity. "I did--eighteen years ago." And Bruno rose hastily, as if he wished to dismiss the subject. Margaret dropped on her knees and requested his blessing, which he gave as though his thoughts were far away: and then he left the room slowly, gazing on Belasez to the last. This was the first, but not by any means the last, interview between Father Bruno and the Jewish maiden. A month later, Doucebelle asked Belasez how she liked him. "I do not like him; I love him," said Belasez, with more warmth than usual. "What a confession!" answered Doucebelle, playfully. "Oh, not that sort of love!" responded Belasez with a tinge of scorn. "I think it must be the sort that we can take into Heaven with us."