Kate lifted her eyes, hitherto listening, but otherwise meaningless.
"Pierre, who used to light the fires and sweep the church?"
"Yes; you knew him," said Father Francis looking at her; "he talked of you more than once during his delirium. It seems you sang for him once, and he never forgot it. It dwelt in his mind more than anything else, during that last illness."
A pang pierced Kate's heart. She remembered the day when she had strayed into the church with Reginald, and found old Pierre sweeping. He had made his request so humbly and earnestly, that she had sat down at the little harmonium and played and sung a hymn. And he had never forgotten it; he had talked of it in his dying hours. The sharpest remorse she had ever felt in her life, for the good she might have done, she felt then.
"My poor people have missed their Lady Bountiful," continued Father Francis, with that grave smile of his—"missed her more than ever, in this trying time. Do you remember Hermine Lacheur, Miss Danton?"
"That pretty, gentle girl, with the great dark eyes, and black ringlets? Oh, yes, very well."
"The same. She was rather a pet of yours, I think. You taught her to sing some little hymns in the choir. You will be sorry to hear she has gone."
"Dead!" Kate cried, struck and thrilled.
"Dead," Father Francis said, a little tremor in his voice. "A most estimable girl, beloved by every one. Like Pierre, she talked a great deal of you in her last illness, and sang the hymns you taught her. 'Give my dear love to Miss Danton,' were almost her last words to me; 'she has been very kind to me. Tell her I will pray for her in Heaven.'"
There was silence.