“They were three together,” said she. “Pierre has written; could they not have written also?”
This argument was not bad. The curé could not reply; for, without acknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor child sit down by the side of the swift-running stream that glittered in the bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing, touching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke of the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the necessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her parents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we will meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be separated.
At another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and perhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon her heart like soft caresses.
“Oh!” said she, “it is only now I understand how dearly I loved him. Father, tell me, can he see us from above?”
“You will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,” said the curé, smiling.
Jeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.
“That is true,” she said; “perhaps he is not dead.”
Hope had re-entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest. They walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much tenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.
“One moment,” said the good curé; “you are a little egotist. I can't go without saying a word to father and mother.”
“Oh! yes,” said she, “of course you must; but, dear father, I will remain here, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will completely restore me.”