"You stole that from her, daughter!"
"I? Why, how could I? And is the Church able to accept whatever service, my—this young girl might give, while the world is unable to do so?"
"It can."
Then Mam'selle stood up. Her patient, work-worn hands were folded before her, she raised her deep, sad eyes.
"Father," she said calmly, "you feel that you have a right to assume this attitude toward me, without even hearing my side? My life, as you know it, has done nothing to save me from this—this mistake of yours. You have taken my money, what help I could give, and I believed that you were my friend."
"I am; your real and only friend." Mantelle was deceived by the tone and words.
"You have shown me that a man cannot be a friend to a woman! He cannot give her justice."
"You are not speaking to a man, daughter!"
The desire to laugh again consumed Jo, but she mastered it.
"In that capacity alone did I regard you, Father Mantelle, and you have failed me. For the rest, I let no one stand between my conscience and my God! No. If I ask help again it will be from a woman; she at least can understand."