"Pauvre fille!" said the mother, returning her embrace mournfully, "you will wander away from the church,—our holy church. It would not have been thus, had we remained in sunny Picardy. Eh! oublier je ne puis."
"What is it, chère mère", said Adèle, "that you cannot forget? There is something I have long wished to know. What was there, before you came here to live? Why do you sometimes sit and look so thoughtful, so sad and wishful? Tell me;—tell me, that I may comfort you".
"I will tell you all, Adèle, yes,—all. It is time for you to know, but—not to-night—not to-night".
"To-morrow then, ma mère?"
"Yes. Yes—to-morrow".
CHAPTER X.
PICARDY.
"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but, weep sore for him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native country". The prophet, who wrote these words, well knew the exile's grief. He was himself an exile. He thought of Jerusalem, the city of his home, his love, and his heart was near to breaking. He hung his harp upon the willow; he sat down by the streams of Babylon and wept.