"Yes, mother; it is he; it is Hervé," said Hena, opening the window.
She descended to the floor below.
"My God!" thought Bridget to herself in no slight agitation. "How am I to interpret the confidence of Hena? Her soul is incapable of dissimulation. She has told me the whole truth, without being aware of the sentiments the young monk awakens in her. I can hardly wait to inform Christian of this strange discovery!"
The sound of Hervé's steps hurriedly ascending the stairs drew Bridget from her brown study. She saw her son rush in, followed by his sister. As he stepped into the room he cried with a troubled countenance:
"Oh, mother! mother!" and embracing her tenderly he added: "Oh, mother! What sad news I bring you!"
"Dear child, what is it?"
"Our poor Mary La Catelle—"
"What has happened to her?"
"This evening, as I was about to leave the printing shop, father asked me to accompany him part of the way. He was going to a friend's, with whom he was to take supper this evening. Father said: 'La Catelle's house is on our way, we shall drop in and inquire whether she is still suffering from her painful experience of the other evening'—"
"Yesterday morning," Bridget broke in, "after I took her home with your sister, we left Mary calm and at ease. She is a brave woman."