"The matter is that I will not endure any more to be so treated," said she passionately. "To be scolded like a child because I stayed out a little after sunset talking to Pierre Le Febre, and to be told that I disturb the peace of the family. No, I will not endure it!" "But, Lucille, why should you talk with Pierre Le Febre?" I asked. "You know what a wild young fellow he is, and what bad things he has done. I don't wonder your mother does not like it. Oh, Lucille, surely you do not care for him!" "Of course I do not care for him," said Lucille, more angrily still. "I do not care a rush for him. It is the being lectured and put down and never daring to breathe, that I hate." "I am sure you have as much liberty as I do," said I. "And as to lectures, I should like to have you hear how Mrs. Grace preaches at me. Besides, I think Mother Jeanne was rightly displeased. I am sure no girl who values her character ought to be seen with Pierre Le Febre. Remember poor Isabeau, Lucille." "What, you, too!" said Lucille between her closed lips. "Must you, too, take to lecturing me? Ah, well, we shall see!" We had now reached the point I mentioned before, where the lane crossed the high road to Avranches, and our attention was attracted by the sound of chanting. The priest and his attendants were coming up from the village, evidently carrying the Host to some dying person. "Quick, Lucille, there is yet time!" said I, and I turned aside into the thick bushes and ascended the rock I had spoken of. I had reached the top and hidden myself from observation before I discovered that she was not following me. I peeped over and saw her standing just where I had left her. "Quick, quick, Lucille!" I cried, but she never moved. The procession came near. To my inexpressible horror, I saw Lucille drop on her knees and remain in that position till the priest came up. He stopped, asked a question or two, and then, as it seemed, bestowing his blessing and giving her something from his pocket, he passed on. It was not till he was out of sight that I dared descend. I found Lucille still standing, apparently lost in thought, and holding in her hand a little gilded crucifix. "What have you done, Lucille?" I cried. "You have made an act of catholicity!" "I know it," said she, in that hard, unfeeling tone which is sometimes a sign of the greatest excitement. "I meant to do it! I have had enough of the Religion, as you call it!" and she spoke with a tone of bitter contempt. "I am going to try what holy Mother Church can do for me." "And leave your father and mother, never to see them again—leave them in their old age, to break their hearts over their child's apostasy—"