"Pardie few of the fine dames of France can say that!" exclaimed the horseman. "But the truth is, my poor young lady, my home is not very near. But I would fain help you if I could. Where are your father and mother? Better go home to them, and if you have offended them, try to soften them with tears. They must have hard hearts if they resist."
"They are in the grave," answered the unhappy girl.
"And what is your name, poor thing?" inquired her companion.
She paused and hesitated; but the next moment she said, "Why should I conceal the truth? my name is Helen de la Tremblade."
"What!" exclaimed the farmer, "the niece of the good priest at the Château de Marzay?"
"The same," answered Helen with a mournful shake of the head.
"Then you have been residing with the old Marchioness de Chazeul," rejoined the other, adding, "at least the servants told me so."
"Till this morning," replied Helen with a sigh; "but I am now a houseless outcast."
The horseman dismounted from his beast, and took her kindly by the hand; "Alas, poor child," he said, "you have been, I fear, under a hard ruler. I know something of this woman; if not personally, at least by hearsay; and I can easily believe that she has been harsh and unkind."
"But I was first in fault," answered Helen, interrupting him frankly, "I deserved reproach, perhaps punishment, but oh, not so terrible as this."