"In gineral, Sir; but we come down odd spells to hear Dr. Johns, who preaches at the Ashfield meetin'-house. He's a real smart man."
"Ah! And this Dr. Johns has a family, I think?"
"Waäl, the Doctor lost his wife, you see, quite airly; and Miss Johns—that's his sister—has bin a-keepin' house for him ever sence. I'm not acquainted with her, but I've heerd she's a very smart woman. And there's a French girl that came to live with 'em, goin' on now seven or eight year, who was a reg'lar Roman Catholic; but I kind o' guess the old folks has tamed her down afore now."
"Ah! I should think that a Roman Catholic would have but a poor chance in a New England village."
"Not much of a chance anywhere, I guess," said the old lady, wiping her spectacles, "if folks only preached the Gospil."
Even now the coach is creaking along through the outskirts of Ashfield; and presently the driver's horn wakes the echoes of the hills, while the horses plunge forward at a doubled pace. The eyes of Maverick are intent upon every house, every open window, every moving figure.
"It's a most a beautiful town," said the old lady.
"Charming, charming, Madam!"—and even as he spoke, Maverick's eye fastens upon two figures before them with a strange yearning in his gaze,—two figures of almost equal height: a little, coquettish play of ribbons about the head of one, which in the other are absent; a girlish, elastic step to one, that does not belong to the other.
Is there something in the gait, something in the poise of the head, to which the memory of Maverick so cleaves? It is, indeed, Adèle, taking her noon-day walk with Madame Arles. A lithe figure and a buoyant step, holding themselves tenderly in check for the slower pace of the companion. Maverick's gaze keeps fast upon them,—fast upon them, until the old coach is fairly abreast,—fast upon them, until by a glance back he has caught full sight of the faces.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaims, and throws himself back in the coach.