her; but, I remember, she told me once that, when I was away from her,
she somehow felt that I didn't really love her. That's always been the
way. When I was with people, they liked me; when I was away from them,
I couldn't depend upon them. No; upon my soul, of all the friends I've
ever had, there's not one that I know of that I could go to now--except
my sister, poor girl!--and feel sure that no matter what I did, they'd
stick to me to the end. I suppose the fault is mine. If I'd been worth
the standing by, I'd have been the better stood by. But this girl, this
little French provincial, with a heart of fire and gold, with a touch of
sin in her, and a thumping artery of truth, she would walk with me to the
gallows, and give her life to save my life--yes, a hundred times. Well,
then, I'll start over again; for I've found the real thing. I'll be true
to her just as long as she's true to me. I'll never lie to her; and I'll
do something else--something else. I'll tell her--"

He reached out, picked a wild rose from the vine upon the wall, and
fastened it in his button-hole, with a defiant sort of smile, as there
came a tap to his door. "Come in," he said.

The door opened, and in stepped Shangois, the notary. He carried a jug
under his arm, which, with a nod, he set down at the foot of the bed.

"M'sieu'," said he, "it is a thing that cured the bishop; and once, when
a prince of France was at Quebec, and had a bad cold, it cured him. The
whiskey in it I made myself--very good white wine." Ferrol looked at the
little man curiously. He had only spoken with him once or twice, but he
had heard the numberless legends about him, and the Cure had told him
many of his sayings, a little weird and sometimes maliciously true to the
facts of life.