"One must venture something, sometimes, in the cause of religion," thought she, as she started timorously on her way. But she had not gone a dozen steps before she repented her temerity. There was some one behind her. There should not be anything terrible in a footstep merely because it is masculine; but Madame Delphine's mind was not prepared to consider that. A terrible secret was haunting her. Yesterday morning she had found a shoe-track in the garden. She had not disclosed the discovery to Olive, but she had hardly closed her eyes the whole night. The step behind her now might be the fall of that very shoe. She quickened her pace, but did not leave the sound behind. She hurried forward almost at a run; yet it was still there--no farther, no nearer. Two frights were upon her at once--one for herself, another for Olive, left alone in the house; but she had but the one prayer--"God protect my child!" After a fearful time she reached a place of safety, the cathedral. There, panting, she knelt long enough to know the pursuit was, at least, suspended, and then arose, hoping and praying all the saints that she might find the way clear for her return in all haste to Olive. She approached a different door from that by which she had entered, her eyes in all directions and her heart in her throat. "Madame Carraze." She started wildly and almost screamed, though the voice was soft and mild. Monsieur Vignevielle came slowly forward from the shade of the wall. They met beside a bench, upon which she dropped her basket. "Ah, Miche Vignevielle, I thang de good God to mid you!" "Is dad so, Madame Carraze? Fo' w'y dad is?" "A man was chase me all dad way since my 'ouse!" "Yes, Madame, I sawed him." "You sawed 'im? Oo it was?" "'Twas only one man wad is a foolizh. De people say he's crezzie. _Mais_, he don' goin' to meg you no 'arm." "But I was scare' fo' my lill' girl." "Noboddie don' goin' trouble you' lill' gal, Madame Carraze." Madame Delphine looked up into the speaker's strangely kind and patient eyes, and drew sweet re-assurance from them. "Madame," said Monsieur Vignevielle, "wad pud you hout so hearly dis morning?" She told him her errand. She asked if he thought she would find anything. "Yez," he said, "it was possible--a few lill' _becassines-de-mer_, ou somezin' ligue. But fo' w'y you lill' gal lose doze hapetide?" "Ah, Miche,"--Madame Delphine might have tried a thousand times again without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth,--"Ah, Miche, she wone tell me!" "Bud, anny'ow, Madame, wad you thing?" "Miche," she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in either eye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, "I thing--I thing she's lonesome." "You thing?" She nodded. "Ah! Madame Carraze," he said, partly extending his hand, "you see? 'Tis impossible to mague you' owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. Madame, I med one mizteg."