"Did they have no confessional?"
"We confessed in the aisle, mademoiselle, before all the world,—we all knew we were sinners,—and the crowd was so great. André, too, I saw by the side of the priest, whispering in his ear."
"André! What could his simple life show for sin?"
"He is human like the rest of us, mademoiselle."
She took her pipe from her pocket. It reminded me of André. I filled and lighted it for her, and placed it between her still strong teeth.
"André's was the sin of silence, as was mine. I, too, confessed it."
I wondered if she would tell me further. I waited in suspense for her next words.
"You ask me have I ever lived at the manor? I lived there one winter—a cruel winter even for us Canadians. It is so long ago, I may speak of it now. My brother will never speak of it more. It eases me to speak of it. It was Martinmas when an Englishman came to this very door. It was after dark. He said he had permission from the English seignior, who was in England, to stay in the manor as long as he would. The agent of the estate was with him—a hard man. He said it was all right, and showed me a paper which I could not read. My daughter read for me. It was signed by the English seignior; he, too, was a Ewart. The English gentleman asked me if I would come and keep the house for him and his wife; he was here for her health. Would I stay till spring?
"He offered me twenty pièces the month, mademoiselle—twenty pièces! That meant ease of mind for me and my daughter. I was not to leave the manor to go home, he said. I must stay there on account of his wife.
"I took time to think; but the twenty pièces, mademoiselle! My daughter said, 'Go; it will keep us for three years.'