One day, about three weeks after Father Henwick’s return, she was coming home through the wood after her morning’s round amongst the cottages. She was very tired in mind and body. It was dull work dinning the multiplication-table into Bessy Bing’s thick skull, and teaching her unnimble fingers to turn the heel of a stocking; to listen to the widow’s endless lamentations over “the dear departed” and the good old times when they killed a pig every year, and always had a bit of bacon on the rack. Franceline came to the old spot where she used to sit and listen to the concert of the grove. The songsters were nearly all silent now, for the green was turning gold; but the felled tree was lying in the same place, and tempted her to rest a moment and watch the sun shooting his golden shafts through the wilderness of stems all round. Another moment, and she was in dreamland; but the spell had scarcely fallen on her when it was broken by the sound of footfalls crushing the yellow leaves that made a carpet on every path. She started to her feet, and walked on. A few steps brought her face to face with Father Henwick. He greeted her with a joyous exclamation. “Here comes my little missionary! What has she been doing to-day?” “She has achieved a great conquest; she has arrived at making Bessy Bing apprehend the problem that seven times nine and nine times seven produce one and the same total,” replied Franceline with mock gravity. Father Henwick laughed; but the tired expression of her face did not escape him. “I am afraid you will be growing too conceited if this sort of thing goes on,” he said. “But you must not overdo it, my dear child; it won’t do to wear yourself out in gaining arithmetical triumphs.” “Better wear out than rust out.” And Franceline shrugged her shoulders; she had learned the expressive French trick from her father. The priest bent his clear eyes on her for a second without speaking. She read, disappointment, and perhaps mild reproach, in them. “I am sorry I said that, father; I did not mean to complain.” “Why are you sorry?” “Because it was cowardly and ungrateful.” “To whom?” “To you, who are so kind and so patient with me!” “And who bids me be kind? Who teaches me to be patient with you?--poor little bruised lamb!” “I know it, father; I feel it in the bottom of my heart; but one can’t always be remembering.” There was the slightest touch of impatience in her tone. “How if God were some day to grow tired of remembering us, and bearing with us, and forgiving us?” “I know. But I am not rebelling; only sickening and suffering. You have told me there was no sin in that?” The words came tremulous, as if through rising tears; but Franceline raised her head with a defiant movement, and forced the briny drops down. “I cannot help it!” she continued impetuously; “I have tried my best, and I cannot help it!” Father Henwick heaved an almost inaudible sigh before he said: “What cannot you help, Franceline? Suffering?”