And so they passed beyond the turn in the valley, and the hills shut them away from St. Gregoire. Soon the snows of winter fell upon all the hills, and more than ever was St. Gregoire lost to the great world outside. In the long evenings Père Dufresne sat by his fire alone, conjuring up the face of his little maid in the moving shadows, and dreaming, till he almost heard her voice as he used to hear it--“_Mais oui, mon père_, that is what the bird in the cedars said to me as I came by the swamp at sunset.” It was thus that he thought of her, and always with a great foreboding and self-condemnation. Day after day dragged slowly by until at last the winter was gone, but neither the spring nor the summer brought assurance to the old priest or eased his loneliness. One thing there came to arouse the parish, even as the engineers had with their suggestion of a railroad. In the early summer a letter had come from over the sea saying their bell would be ready in the autumn. From whom it was to come they knew not; _le bon Dieu_ had indeed remembered them. * * * * * Then, as the days grew chill again, that which the priest expected and dreaded happened--Diâne came back--Diâne and her baby. Her husband had sailed away to England, to his mother who was dying; as for herself, she could not bear the town alone, she must come back to the old familiar river and her hills to wait for him. That was the simple story she had to tell; to her it was sufficient, but she read anger and grief on the priest’s face. “This is the happiness you sought, the thing I let you wander out into the world to find, and I knew, I knew.” As he bowed his head in sorrow, Diâne knelt and pleaded as she had once before. “Ah, _mon père_, it is not that you should grieve, for I found my happiness. I am happy now, a little lonely, perhaps, till he shall come for me, but he will come. I tell you he will come,” she repeated in eager defense as she noted the pained look of doubt. “He is gone as I told you, but I chose to stay. Besides, I am not alone; here is my child, father. The days may be long, but he will come. As I came here I heard the people talking of a bell. It is not yet hung, but when it rings for the first time I shall know he will not be far away.” The prophecy came to her as an inspiration, and her tone of loneliness changed to one of trust and surety. A tiny log house on the river bank she took for her home. The curé found that his old housekeeper needed strong, young arms to lift the burden of her work, and so Diâne settled into a quiet nook, more silent than of old, and if her longing and weary waiting found words, they were whispered to baby ears by the fireside in the little cabin by the river.