"Thou art my Saint Catharine," said Virginie, rising up, excited by Mary's enthusiasm, "and hast the sword as well as the palm; but, dear saint, don't think so very, very badly of him;--he has a noble nature; he has the angel in him." "The greater his sin," said Mary; "he sins against light and love." "But I think his heart is touched,--I think he is sorry. Oh, Mary, if you had only seen how he looked at me when he put out his hands on the rocks!--there were tears in his eyes" "Well there might be!" said Mary; "I do not think he is quite a fiend; no one could look at those cheeks, dear Virginie, and not feel sad, that saw you a few months ago." "Am I so changed?" she said, rising and looking at herself in the mirror. "Sure enough,--my neck used to be quite round;--now you can see those two little bones, like rocks at low tide. Poor Virginie! her summer is gone, and the leaves are falling; poor little cat!"--and Virginie stroked her own chestnut head, as if she had been pitying another, and began humming a little Norman air, with a refrain that sounded like the murmur of a brook over the stones. The more Mary was touched by these little poetic ways, which ran just on an even line between the gay and the pathetic, the more indignant she grew with the man that had brought all this sorrow. She felt a saintly vindictiveness, and a determination to place herself as an adamantine shield between him and her friend. There is no courage and no anger like that of a gentle woman, when once fully roused; if ever you have occasion to meet it, you will certainly remember the hour. CHAPTER XXXII. PLAIN TALK.