"He did not reason with me then,—he sent me to bed, and for six days I went every morning to mass in the Madeleine. Then I grew tired, because I had not been brought up to it, and it seemed strange to me. That was the time Mr. Nimmo explained many things to me. I learned that, though one must hate evil, there is a duty of forgiveness—but I weary you," and she sprang up from her chair. "I must also go home; my aunt will wonder where I am. I shall soon see you both again, I hope," and waving her hand, she ran lightly towards the gate.
"An abrupt departure," said Agapit, as he watched her out of sight.
"She is nervous, and also homesick for the Nimmos," said Rose; "but what a dear child. Her letters have made her seem like a friend of years' standing. Perhaps we should have kept her from lingering on those stories of the old time."
"Do not reproach yourself," said Agapit, as he took another piece of cake, "we could not have kept her from it. She was just about to cry,—she is probably crying now," and there was a curious satisfaction in his voice.
"Are you not well to-day, Agapit?" asked Rose, anxiously.
"Mon Dieu, yes,—what makes you think otherwise?"
"You seem subdued, almost dull."
Agapit immediately endeavored to take on a more sprightly air. "It is that child,—she is overcoming. I was not prepared for such life, such animation. She cannot write as she speaks."
"No; her letters were stiff."
"Without doubt, Mr. Nimmo has sent her here to be an amiable distraction for you," said Agapit. "He is afraid that you are getting too holy, too far beyond him. He sends this Parisian butterfly to amuse you. He has plenty of money, he can indulge his whims."