"Yes, it is hard. Life is so difficult," she went on slowly—weakly, "I 'm glad to be going out of it—out into the dark."
Aline kissed her hand, and spoke wistfully:
"Is it all so dark to you?"
"Why yes, dark enough—cold enough—lonely enough. Is n't it so to you?"
"Not altogether, ma tante."
"What, because of those old tales which you believe? Well, if they comfort you, take comfort from them. I can't."
"But Mlle Ange—believes?"
Marthe frowned impatiently.
"Who knows what Ange believes? Not she herself. She is a saint to be sure, but orthodox? A hundred years ago she would have been lucky if she had escaped Purgatory fire in this life. She is content to wander in vague, beautiful imaginings. She abstracts her mind, and calls it prayer; confuses it, and says she has been meditating. I am not like that. I like things clear and settled, with a good hard edge to them. I should have been the worker and Ange the invalid,—no, no! what am I saying? God forgive me, I don't mean that."
"You would not like to see M. le Curé?" said Aline timidly. The question had been on her lips a hundred times, but she had not had the courage to let it pass them.