"Father, I pray of you forgive my sorrows; their expression may offend my benefactors." "Listen, Marie. We have often asked you the cause of these sorrows with which you are depressed, and which excite in your second mother the most serious uneasiness. You have avoided all reply, and we have respected your secret whilst we have been afflicted at not being able to solace your sorrows." "Alas; good father, I dare not tell you what is passing in my mind. I have been moved, as you have been, at the sight of this calm and saddening evening. My heart is sorely afflicted, and I have wept." "But what ails you, Marie? You know how we love you! Come, tell me all. You should; for I must tell you that the time is very close at hand when Madame Georges and M. Rodolph will present you at the baptismal font, and take upon themselves the engagement before God to protect you all the days of your life." "M. Rodolph--he who has saved me?" cried Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her hands; "he will deign to give me this new proof of affection! Oh, indeed, my father, I can no longer conceal from you anything, lest I should, indeed, deserve to be called and thought an ingrate." "An ingrate! How?" "That you may understand me, I must begin and tell you of my first day at the farm." "Then let us talk as we walk on." "You will be indulgent to me, my father? What I shall say may perhaps be wrong." "The Lord has shown his mercy unto you. Be of good heart." "When," said Fleur-de-Marie, after a moment's reflection, "I knew that, on arriving here, I should not again leave the farm and Madame Georges, I believed it was all a dream. At first I felt giddy with my happiness, and thought every moment of M. Rodolph. Very often when I was alone, and in spite of myself, I raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there and thank him. Afterwards--and I was wrong, father--I thought more of him than God, attributing to him what God alone could do. I was happy--as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from a great danger. You and Madame Georges were so kind to me, that I thought I deserved pity rather than blame." The curé looked at the Goualeuse with an air of surprise. She continued: "Gradually I became used to my sweet course of life. I no longer felt fear when I awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. I seemed to sleep in full security, and all my delight was to assist Madame Georges in her work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well as to profit by your advice and exhortation. Except some moments of shame, when I reflected on the past, I thought myself equal to all the world, because all the world was so kind to me. When, one day--" Here sobs cut short poor Fleur-de-Marie's narration. "Come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. Courage, courage!" The Goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed: