"It seems too good to be true!" cried Michael, suddenly covering his face with his hands. "We have all been through an awful time, mon Père."
"So it would seem. It is not the moment for me to tell you that you drew it all upon yourselves—since the good God has seen fit to restore you to happiness."
"I drew it upon us," protested Michael. "You know the whole story, Father?"
The old priest coughed slightly.
"I know most of it, my son. In it, you do not altogether shine——"
Michael got up from his chair, while he clasped his hands forcibly.
"No, indeed, I do not—I know I have been an unspeakable brute—I have not the grain of an excuse to offer—and yet she has forgiven me. Women are certainly angels, are they not, mon Père?"
The Curé of Héronac sighed gently.
"Angels when they love, and demons when they hate—of an unbalance—but a great charm. It lies with us men to decide the feather-weight which will make the scale go either way with them—to heaven or hell."
Here the ancient housekeeper announced that coffee and rolls were ready for them in the other room, and the Père Anselme led the way without further words.