"Be silent, Mademoiselle," said my father sharply.

But she disregarded his interruption.

"So she believed that you had filled your ship with fifty bales of
shavings. She believed it, and called you a thief. She believed you were
as gauche as that. I can guess the rest of the story."

But my father had regained his equanimity.

"Five hundred bales of shavings," he corrected. "You are misinformed even
about the merest details."

"And for fifteen years, you have been roving about the world, trying to
convince her she was right. Ah, you are touched? I have guessed your
secret. Can anything be more ridiculous!"

He half started from his chair, and again his face grew drawn and
haggard.

"She _was_ right," he said, a little hoarsely. "Believe me, she was
always right, Mademoiselle."

"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle. "I do not believe it."

My father turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders.

"It is pleasant to remember, is it not, my son, that your mother had a
keener discernment, and did not give way to the dictates of a romantic
imagination?"