“What are these little things?” he asked. Julie understood well enough that the question was not a serious one, but why should she take offence? “What, uncle? Have you never seen any medallions before?” “Not I, my dear,” he lied; “they aren’t exactly pretty pretty, but I suppose they’re of some use?” And as even the serenest piety is not inconsistent with innocent playfulness, the child pointed with her finger to a photograph of herself, which she had caught sight of propped up against the glass over the mantelpiece, and said: “There’s a picture of a little girl there, uncle, who isn’t pretty pretty either. What use can it be to you?” Surprised at finding a Christian capable of such pointed repartee and doubtless of such good sense too, Uncle Anthime was for a moment taken aback. But he really couldn’t embark on a metaphysical argument with a little girl of nine years old. He smiled. The child made use of her advantage immediately, and, holding out her little sacred images: “This,” said she, “is my patron saint, St. Julia; and this, the Sacred Heart of Our....” “And haven’t you got one of God?” interrupted Anthime absurdly. The child answered with perfect simplicity: “No, people don’t make any of God. But this is the prettiest--Our Lady of Lourdes. Aunt Fleurissoire gave it to me; she brought it back from Lourdes; I put it round my neck the day that Papa and Mamma offered me to the Virgin.” This was too much for Anthime. Without attempting for a moment to understand all the ineffable loveliness that such images call up--the month of May, the white and blue procession of children--he gave way to his crazy desire to blaspheme. “So the Holy Virgin didn’t want to have anything to do with you, since you are still with us?” The child made no answer. Did she realise already that the best answer to certain impertinences is to say nothing? As a matter of fact, after this senseless question, it was not Julie, it was the unbeliever that blushed; and then, to hide this moment of confusion--this slight qualm which ever secretly accompanies impropriety--the uncle pressed a respectful and atoning kiss on his niece’s candid brow. “Why do you pretend to be so naughty, Uncle Anthime?” The child was not to be deceived; at bottom, this impious man of science had a tender heart. Then why this obstinate resistance? At that moment Adèle opened the door. “Madame is asking for Miss Julie.” Marguerite de Baraglioul, it seems, was afraid of her brother-in-law’s influence and had no wish to leave her daughter alone with him for long. He ventured to say as much to her in a whisper a little later on, as the family were going in to dinner. But Marguerite, with an eye still slightly inflamed, glanced at Anthime: