"You laugh?" he said as if his hearing had betrayed him. "Forgive me, Father, but it struck me as being rather hard on the girl that, for a wrong she never committed, she should be condemned to—to exile; not even given a chance of her own." "You stole that from her, daughter!" "I? Why, how could I? And is the Church able to accept whatever service, my—this young girl might give, while the world is unable to do so?" "It can." Then Mam’selle stood up. Her patient, work-worn hands were folded before her, she raised her deep, sad eyes. "Father," she said calmly, "you feel that you have a right to assume this attitude toward me, without even hearing my side? My life, as you know it, has done nothing to save me from this—this mistake of yours. You have taken my money, what help I could give, and I believed that you were my friend." "I am; your real and only friend." Mantelle was deceived by the tone and words. "You have shown me that a man cannot be a friend to a woman! He cannot give her justice." "You are not speaking to a man, daughter!" The desire to laugh again consumed Jo, but she mastered it. "In that capacity alone did I regard you, Father Mantelle, and you have failed me. For the rest, I let no one stand between my conscience and my God! No. If I ask help again it will be from a woman; she at least can understand." "A woman is hardest upon women in such cases as yours, Mam’selle!" Jo was thankful that at last the priest had dropped the objectionable "daughter." "She will be the first who will turn against you." "And was it a woman who came to you, Father, with my—my trouble?" Mantelle’s face flushed and Jo shook her head sadly. "I see it was not. So the first and second who have turned against me have been men. Good day, Father, and"—Mam’selle stopped at the door—"if you ever need help in giving that poor Tom Gavot his chance, I stand ready to do what I have always promised to do, and I do it for the sake of his mother." Condemnation and contempt rang in Jo’s voice. It was her last arrow and it sank home. The priest was practical and having done his Christian duty he could afford to be human. "It speaks well for your good sense, Mam’selle," he said; "that you do not utterly shut yourself away from your people." Then Mantelle paused, "Mam’selle!" he said. "Yes, Father." Jo turned and lifted her deep eyes to his face. "I wonder if you _have_ something to tell me that I should know in justice to you?" "You should have thought of that first, Father. It is too late now." "We may"—the man’s recent manner fell from him like an unnecessary garment—"be friends, still?" Again Jo laughed. She felt that she had by some kindly power regained something of her lost position with this lonely old man. Since he could not understand her, save her, he was willing to accept her. "Father, I have too few friends to cast them off heedlessly." And then she went out, more of a mystery than ever to Mantelle.