When Jo entered the priest’s house his servant, an old Indian woman, showed her to a rear room in which she had never been before. It surprised Jo by its comfort and even luxury. Books lined the walls, rugs covered the rude board flooring; there were comfortable chairs, broad tables, and a clear fire burning on the spotless hearth. The old man sat before the fire, and as he looked up and saw Jo his delicate face flushed. Something in his manner caught her attention at once. Subtle as it was, she was keenly sensitive of it. "He’s heard!" thought Jo, and stiffened. Father Mantelle had heard and he thought, he certainly hoped, that the erring daughter had come to confess. It was not in the church, but that did not matter; more was dragged out of heavily-burdened souls in that comfortable room than was ever got in the small church on the hill. The priest meant to be very kind, very tolerant; he knew the world outside Point of Pines and was extremely human when men and women deserved his kindness. But until they were brought to the proper state of mind, mercy must be withheld, and this disclosure of Jo’s past had shaken him tremendously. Certainly whatever he had thought about her, he had not thought this! He felt that he, in his office and character, had been grossly deceived. He had been permitted to associate on equal terms with a woman outside the pale. It was outrageous. Something intangible, but strangely like Dan Kelly’s manner toward Donelle, marked Mantelle’s attitude at the present moment. A half-concealed familiarity, an assumption of authority. "Well, well, you have come, daughter," he said, and pointed Jo to the chair across the hearth. He thought Jo had been driven to him in her extremity, he had never addressed her as "daughter" before. "Father," Jo began bluntly, "I’ve come to ask your help with this young girl I’ve adopted." The priest thought Mam’selle hard. Indeed Longville had told him, in strict privacy, that she was hard and defiant. For the good of her own soul and the soul of other women likely to defy the laws of God and man, she must be brought to a repentant state. Now that he understood conditions, Mantelle was prepared to reduce Jo to that desirable state. He smiled kindly, blandly; he was a bit daunted but he realized that, erring as Mam’selle was, she was no ordinary woman. He kindly led her on. "Though you have seen your duty late, daughter," he said gently, "there is still time to strive for the child’s best good." Then Jo told him quite concisely of her desires for Donelle. "I want to have her learn all that you can teach her, Father," she said, "and after that—well, I have no plans, but my money and life will be devoted to the girl." There was a suspicion of defiance and bitterness in Mam’selle’s tone.