"To-morrow I shall not be here," said I sorrowfully. "I suppose David and I can make the place neat for ourselves if you are not here," said Lucille, taking me up rather sharply. "Lucille!" said her brother reproachfully. And then turning to me, "But you will come and see us very often." "If I can," said I; "but I suppose I shall have a great many lessons to do now." "Of course you will," said Lucille; "you will have to learn to play the lute and to write and work embroidery, and a hundred other things. You will be a great lady, and we cannot expect you to come and visit us. David ought to know better than to think of such a thing." "Lucille, you are too bad to say such things!" I cried passionately. "To spoil our last day so. I believe you are glad I am going away." "I am not either," she answered indignantly; "I am as sorry as David, only I don't want to be left out in the cold while you two pity and pet one another." "Children, children!" said a voice which made us all start. We looked toward the door, and there stood the curé of the parish, Father Francois. He was old and fat, and somewhat too fond of eating and drinking; but he was a kind old man, and lived in peace with every one, Reformed or Romanist. "What then!" he was wont to say. "They are all my sheep, though some of them will persist in going astray. It is not for me to throw stones at them or set the dogs on them. Let me rather win them back by kindness." "Children!" said he gravely. "Are you quarrelling?" "No, monsieur," answered David, taking off his hat to the priest, while Lucille and I drew together and clasped hands, forgetting our difference in fear of we knew not what. The old man observed the movement, and said, in a tone of some emotion: "But what, my little girls; are you afraid of?" "No," answered David; "Monsieur has always been kind, but he must know—" "I know, I know!" said the priest, as David paused. "But fear nothing from me. I shall not harm you. But, oh, my children, if you would but return to the bosom of our Holy Mother! Now, tell me, my son—just as a friend, you know—why will you not invoke the mediation of the blessed saints?" "Because, monsieur, it is contrary to the Holy Scriptures," answered David respectfully. "But the example of the holy saints of old, my son—the teachings of the earliest church—consider!" "Monsieur," replied David, "as to the earliest teachings of the church, I suppose they are to be found in the Gospels, and I read there that when certain women would have brought their children to our dear Lord, the disciples, instead of interceding for them, forbade them." "Oh, the Scriptures—always the Scriptures!" said the priest, pettishly enough. "They are the words of God, monsieur!"