"Oh, yes, yes, my darling, _any_ time ... only a little later, when your mother is calmer." Soeur Ste. Lucie's face shone suddenly, radiantly, "God uses all means to His great ends," she said fervently. "This may be the means of giving your dear mother in the end, the holy peace of faith." She looked so serenely trusting and hopeful that Marise felt comforted, "I'll do just as you say, dear Soeur," she said in a trembling voice. Soeur Ste. Lucie drew a long breath, as though she had been steering a difficult course. She kissed Marise again, told her to stay in her room for the time being, to say her prayers, not to worry, her Maman would soon be all right, and probably happier than she had ever been in her life. All this might open the door to salvation for her. She left Marise standing in the middle of the floor, and closed the door carefully behind her. But not so carefully that Marise could not, a moment later, hear Maman crying and crying and crying as she went down the hall and out of the door. Marise began to tremble and cry at the sound. She ran to her window, and saw down below, Maman, her hands over her face, with Soeur Ste. Lucie's arm around her, the tall old monk on the other side, cross the sidewalk and get into the carriage. As the carriage rolled away the weeping child at the window remembered that Soeur Ste. Lucie had not mentioned who the person from Bayonne was who had been killed. Well, what did Marise care who it was! CHAPTER XX It occurred to Marise, and the idea of a responsibility dried her tears with a start, that she ought to get word somehow to Papa. Her heart sprang up to think that perhaps if he knew Maman was so upset he would come back at once. She did _want_ somebody so much, beside Jeanne and Isabelle. But she never knew Papa's address when he was away on business. Perhaps there was something on Maman's writing-desk. She went quickly into the salon, drew aside the curtains which shut off the writing-desk's alcove from the salon, and began rather helplessly to fumble among Maman's papers and novels. There were very few letters of any sort. Maman didn't keep up her correspondence with America very much. Jeanne had heard Marise moving and through the alcove curtains Marise saw her now come into the salon with a basin of water in her hand, pretending that she needed to water a plant. Marise remembered that she must as usual arrange something to present to Jeanne that would not reflect on Maman's fancifulness. But perhaps Soeur Ste. Lucie had told her something. She inquired cautiously but Jeanne said stiffly, still outraged at having been shut out of the room, that she knew nothing. Everything about her except her words, said forcibly that she cared less, and that all this foolishness was a part of the usual nonsense. "Oh, Jeanne, a terrible thing has happened to poor Maman--she saw somebody swept away in the Gavarnie and killed right before her eyes, and it's upset her fearfully."