"Put thy trust in God, my Jeanne," said Father Simon. "We are all in his hands. We must remember that the church has never been promised anything in this world but tribulation and the cross. The crown is to come hereafter. Now let us think of something else. Mamselle Vevette, will you come and help to gather the apples on your own tree? They are quite ready, and I will carry them up for you when you go home." I had been grave quite as long as I liked, and was very ready to enjoy the apple-picking from my own particular tree of golden Jeannetons, which had been solemnly planted when I was born, and now hung loaded with fruit. Never were such apples as those, I am sure. I wonder whether the tree is still in bearing? It must be old and moss-grown by this time, if it has not been cut down. Jeanne made us a supper of fresh pan-cakes, galette, fruit, and rich cream cheese, and when I went home, Father Simon shouldered his hotte * and carried a famous load of beautiful apples up to the tower. * A kind of deep, roomy basket, made to be carried on the shoulders. I found my mother much better, and able to welcome me, and to hear all I had to tell her. I hesitated about repeating my conversation with Lucille on the rock, but my mind had been so disturbed that at last I thought best to do so, hoping to have my doubts laid at rest. "You gave the right answer, my little one," said my mother when I had finished. "It is the will of God. Remember that he has never promised his children temporal prosperity. 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' are his own words. Yet he does give his children many pleasures. There are beautiful flowers and fair fruits growing even by the side of the strait and narrow way, but we must not go out of the way to seek them. Neither must we be discouraged when the path leads over rocks and thorns, or even through marshes and quicksands; but remember that our dear Lord has trodden every step before us, and is waiting to receive us at the end." Much more she said, in the same wise and gentle strain, and at last sent me to bed feeling somewhat comforted. The night was warm, and my door was left ajar for air. I had hardly fallen asleep, as it seemed to me, when I was waked by voices, and heard my mother say: "I do not like what she says about Lucille. I fear the girl has been tampered with. Perhaps we should warn her parents." "We will think about that," said my father. "Ah, my Marguerite, if you and the little one were but in safety—" "Do not ask me to leave you, Armand—not yet," said my mother, clasping her hands. "If we could but send the child home to my sister, I should be at ease. Could we not do it, when Andrew comes?" "We will consider of it," answered my father. "And now, my Pearl, let us betake ourselves to prayer."