And the girl replied, with some of her hoydenish spirit: “Throw the old thing away; I have plenty more,” for it seemed as if she could not tolerate the witness to her secret compact. “I am surprised,” answered the gentle mother. “Waste not, want not. Get thy thimble and thread; here is some muslin, thee can hem another string.” Dorcas did not allow herself to brood over her midnight adventure. Perhaps she was pained by the part of concealment that she played toward her parents; perhaps she was troubled, too, by a recollection of the rebuke contained in the boy’s words. She was sometimes inclined to feel that he was right and her own little world was wrong in so strictly upholding law, and in believing the ways of God were at utter variance from the ways of generous men. “I care not to live any better life than that _mon grandpère_ lives.” These words were ringing in her ears, and she pictured to herself the detail of that life, far enough from reality, no doubt, but a pretty idyl. She began to read much history, and once asked her mother to allow her to take French lessons from a villager. Lucretia was shocked. “Ah, my child! there is little to be read in that tongue that could benefit thee. Blasphemers and winebibbers they are, with no sense of shame in their idolatry of sensual things.” “Then they are an evil-minded people, mother?” “Yea, yea; a frivolous and false-hearted race.” Then Dorcas turned away sorrowfully. Could it be that Henri Beauclaire had told what was not true? If he could steal he might also lie. He was base had he done both; and if that race was false why was he an exception among Frenchmen? When this mood was upon her she blushed alone in her chamber at the thought of the bit of muslin that he so carefully rolled about his finger and put from sight. Mostly, however, her meditations were concluded with the memory of his respect for the clean life of his _grandpère_, and, do as she might, to think him guilty she could not.