"No hard words, if you please, Mademoiselle d'Antin," interrupted Lucille, with a strange smile. "Suppose at my first confession I choose to tell of contempt for the Sacrament, and so on? As to my father and mother, they will not care. Why did they not try to make me happy at home? Why did they love David the best? They have never been kind to me—never!" "Every word you say is false!" I interrupted in my turn, far too angry for any considerations of prudence. "Your parents have always been good to you—far better than you deserved. Go, then, traitor as thou art—go, and put the crown to your baseness by betraying your friend! Sell yourself to Satan, and then find out too late what his service is worth. May Heaven comfort your poor father and mother!" And with that I walked away, but so unsteadily that I could no longer balance my jug safely on my head. I stopped to take it in my hands, when I heard my name called, and in a moment, Lucille came up to me. "Do not let us part so, Vevette," said she. "I was wrong to speak to you as I did. Forgive me, and say good-by. We shall perhaps never meet again." My heart was melted by these words. "Oh, Lucille!" I cried, throwing my arms round her. "Do not lose a moment! There is yet time. Hasten to your parents, and tell them what you have done. They will find a way for you to escape." "And so have my father sent to the galleys for abducting a Catholic child?" said Lucille. "Or perhaps have lighted matches tied to his fingers, or live coals laid on his breast, to force him to confess? No, Vevette, the deed is done, and I am not sorry—no, I am not sorry!" she repeated firmly. "Good-by, Vevette: Kiss me once, though I am an apostate. I shall not infect you. Comfort my mother, if you can." I embraced her, and took my way homeward, stupefied with grief. I can safely say that if Lucille had been struck dead by a thunderbolt before my eyes, the stroke would not have been more dreadful. My mother met me at the door of Grace's room, whither I went with my burden, hardly knowing more what I was doing than some wounded animal which crawls home to die. "You are late, petite," said she. And then, catching sight of my face, she asked me what was the matter, repeating my name and her inquiry in the tenderest tones, as I fell into her kind arms and laid my head on her shoulder, unable to speak a word. Then in a new tone of alarm, as the ever-present danger arose before her: "Has anything happened to your father, Vevette? Speak, my child!" "Speak, Mrs. Vevette!" said Grace sharply. "Don't you see you are killing your mother?" The crisp, imperative tones of command seemed to awaken my stunned powers. "No, no, not my father," I said, "but Lucille." And then I poured out my story. "The wretched, unhappy girl! She has sacrificed herself in a fit of ill-temper, and is now lost to her family forever!" said my mother. "But can nothing be done? Can we not save her, maman?" I asked.