"Does not the granddaughter belong to your fold?" I asked.
"Ah! m'sieu; we try. We try all her life lon' to make her ze Christian. But she wil'—she wil' as ze bird in ze wood. She an' ze half crazy Jeff—ze fiddle player—zey heazen, m'sieu. Zey never dark ze door of ze church. Zey run in ze fores', fiddlin' an' dancin', an' ze devil he laugh an' skip by zey side!"
He put his hands between his knees, palm to palm, and rocked to and fro in genuine distress. I could think of no suitable reply on the moment, so remained silent.
"I have ze pity for ze chil', poor sing!" he resumed, presently. "Ze chance she has not had, like ozzer ones. Meybe ze curse of ze broke' law follow her; I don' know—I don' know!"
He sighed, and let his narrow shoulders droop forward in an attitude both sad and pensive.
"Tell me about that if you can, Father John," I said, placing my elbows on the table's edge and leaning toward him. "I will say to you in strictest confidence that I am deeply interested in Lessie; it is not idle curiosity which prompts me to ask this. I know her father betrayed and deserted her mother; Gran'fer has practically admitted this to me, but he will go no further. You must know the man's name—what was it?"
Father John lifted his head and looked at me.
"Zat, m'sieu, I cannot tell you."
"Why?"
I kept my eyes fastened on his persistently, but respectfully.