They walked for a moment in silence, his head bowed in thought. Paula, glancing at him from time to time, studied the lines of pity and tenderness which shadowed the eyes. His mouth was wonderful to her, quite as virgin to the iron of self-repression as to the soft fullness of physical desire. This was the marvel of the face—it was above battle. Here were eyes that had seen the Glory and retained an unearthly happiness—a face that moved among the lowly, loved, pitied, abode with them; yet was beautiful with the spiritual poise of Overman.
"It was strange that you did not meet Lafcadio Hearn when he was here," she said at length.
He shook his head, asked the name again and the man's work.
"A writer who tarried here; a mystic, too, strange and strong."
"I know no writer by that name—but how did you know that I did not meet him, Child?"
"I was thinking he would write about you in his book of Martinique sketches—had he known."
He accepted the explanation innocently. "There was a writer here—a young man very dear to me—of whom you reminded me at once——"
"Of whom I reminded you, Father?" she repeated excitedly. "You mean because I spoke of another writer?"
"No, I saw a resemblance—rather some relationship of yours to my wonderful young friend.... He said he would come again to me."
She had spoken of Hearn in the hope that Father Fontanel would be reminded of another writer whose name she did not care to mention. His idea of relationship startled her to the heart; yet when she asked further, the good man could not explain. It had merely been his first thought, he said,—as if she had come from his friend.