"But if it is fighting the battles of the poor, demanding justice for the hungry, being very gentle with folks,—and being natural—"
"Ah, that will do," he interrupted. "Now, Nance, fancy, if you can, my being a priest, say, like Monsieur l'Abbé Picot."
Her eyes lighted with dancing mischief.
"That is very easy," she exclaimed. "You are now Monsieur Picot."
"Just fancy," he ejaculated, looking up quickly to catch her eye.
"O, certainly. Just imagine, you mean?"
"Yes, Nance, 'just imagine.'"
"Go on, Father," she said, with slight mockery.
"Now," said he, too serious himself to pay attention to her levity, "if I were the Abbé in the old house with my duty staring me in the face like an injured child, and a veritable hell of a conscience hacking at you continually for having left where you were doing something for somebody, and coming where you were helpless, your longing for just every-day human companionship, the road, and all, and all—what would you do?... What would you do, I ask?... What would a man do?"
For a space she walked in silence. Now she fully realized that he was evidently very sincere in his questionings. The seriousness of the whole thing to him was impressively apparent. Also her answer meant a great deal to him. She must have time. There must be no levity, no mockery, no play in her reply. It must come from her heart to his soul.... She turned to him: