“Have you not been unjust to others also, my child?” asked the _curé_ with gentleness. “Confess it, Jeannette; you should do so from a sense of justice.” Jeannette hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The question had pierced her soul. “M. le Curé,” said Pierrette, “I know of whom you wish to speak; but he, I believe, has not left the country, and his conduct, therefore, is scarcely excusable.” “Ask your daughter,” replied the _curé_; “she, undoubtedly, can answer that question.” And as Jeannette could not speak on account of her tears, he continued: “What could he do, poor boy! but disappear when the only roof that could shelter him refused to receive him. He is no longer here, Mme. Ragaud, that child who loved you so dearly, and who had proved it so well. An inconsiderate word has driven him from your arms, and, having no other resource in this world, he is going to become a soldier, doubtless in the hope of dying honorably in fighting for his country.” “Never did I drive off Jean‐Louis, monsieur,” said good Pierrette; “no, never, I can truly swear.” “Nor I,” said Ragaud; “and at this very moment I am ready to redeem him from the conscription.” “However, he is gone,” replied the _curé_; “and he, like Solange, did not know you were in trouble.” “Oh!” cried Jeanne, falling on her knees, “I did it all. Heaven has justly punished me. Tell me where he is, M. le Curé; he will not refuse to pardon me, I am so unhappy.” “What did you do?” asked Pierrette. “Alas! all this worry has turned the poor child’s head. Of what do you wish to accuse yourself, my daughter?” Old Ragaud, who was not easily moved, approached the little thing and placed his hand on her head. He was very much affected to see her thus, kneeling and weeping, in the posture of a guilty person. He looked at M. le Curé, who looked at Jeannette, and Pierrette looked at all three. Then that young girl did something very touching and unusual. She wiped her eyes, and, without rising, commenced in a sweet, low voice the true confession of all her past conduct, not sparing herself, as was right and just, and yet neither showing excitement nor too great bitterness against herself, which was the mark of sincere repentance. As she spoke, her face regained its color, and her eyes shone with holy joy; for the Lord, who saw her laudable intention, rewarded her with great interior relief for doing what for many others would have been the greatest mortification. When she had finished, she remained with her hands clasped, and her head bent low, before her parents and M. le Curé; but no person broke the silence. Of the three witnesses of this affecting scene, two wept behind their handkerchiefs, and the third, wishing to preserve his gravity as pastor, was too much moved to articulate a word.