She looked at him quickly, a flash in the grey eyes—then the lids lowered. The next instant she was pointing ahead of her.
"But there!" she cried out. "There is Monsieur le Curé's house, is it not?" She clapped her hands in sudden delight. "Why, it is a play-house, only a make-believe one! And how pretty!"
Behind the church was a little garden, full-flowered; a little white fence; a little white gate; and, at the end of the garden, a little cottage, smaller than any, where none were large, in Bernay-sur-Mer, and which was white in colour, too, if one might hazard a guess for the vines that grew over it, covering it, submerging it, clothing it in a clinging mass of green, until only the little stubby chimney peeked shyly out from the centre of the slanting roof.
"Yes," said Jean; "and there is Father Anton himself."
A bare-headed, silver-haired form in rusty black soutane, a watering pot in hand, was bending over a bed of dahlias; but at the sound of their approach the priest put down the watering pot, and came hurriedly toward them to the gate.
"Ah, Jean, my son!" he cried out heartily—and bowed with old-fashioned courtliness to Jean's companion. "I heard there were strangers in Bernay-sur-Mer, mademoiselle; but that they had gone on again. You are very welcome. Won't you come in?"
She leaned upon the gate, smiling—and shook her head.
"No, thank you, Monsieur le Curé. I must not stay long, or my father will be wondering what could have become of me. The truth is, that I—we are in trouble, and Jean here has brought me to you."
"Trouble!" exclaimed Father Anton anxiously, and his face grew suddenly grave.
She shook her head again, and laughed.