Aurore had dragged the good old Curé along interminable corridors, and up interminable stairs to a distant attic, where, beneath the old oak beams, covered with dust and cobwebs, and ancient black leather trunk stood open, with most of its contents already scattered about the floor.

Aurore went through them methodically, and M. le Curé nodded approval, or the reverse, as she held up the garments one by one to the dim light.

"These stockings are strong," she said. "They'll do for Legendre's children. This shawl we'll give to Marianne Vallon; she has nothing of the sort, poor thing. These silks are not much use, but what do you think of these cloth breeches? They are just the right size for Chabot's boy. Oh! and do look, M. l'Abbé, here is a beautiful travelling coat, warm and thick. You'll have to think of someone for whom it would be really useful."

She was squatting back on her heels, turning a great heavy cloth coat over and over.

"It is rather moth-eaten in places," she said ruefully, "but that wouldn't matter much. I believe it was Papa's travelling coat when he and Maman used to post in Paris..."

She paused with the coat in her delicate hands and looked up at the priest with a troubled expression in her eyes.

"M. l'Abbé," she said abruptly, "do you think it would be possible to warn Papa against that awful Talon?"

The Curé looked astonished, not to say shocked.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed. "An old and faithful servant!"

"He is not," Aurore said decisively. "I am sure he is not. He is a hypocrite - he talks softly to Papa-"

"My little Aurore, you must not say those things. Where is your Christian charity? What has poor Hector Talon done?"

"He incites the people down in the village against us."

"But what makes you say such a thing? You really haven't the right-"

"M. l'Abbé, listen to me," Aurore rejoined firmly. "You know Marianne Vallon down in the village?"

"I do. A good woman and-"

"She is a good woman, I daresay, though she seems to hate us."

"No, no, my dear child. You must not jump to conclusions like that. Marianne is a very unhappy woman. Her only son, whom she adored, went to the war a year ago and has not been heard of since. She feels rather bitter about everything. But hatred? No! no!"

"Well, that is as it may be," Aurore rejoined with some impatience; "but she said something yesterday which has confirmed my opinion about Talon. I suspected him long ago, but since yesterday..."

"Well? And what did Marianne say?"

"That it was Talon who egged on those people to fire the mill and the granaries."

The Curé raised his hands in protest.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I cannot believe that."

"Then you think that Marianne Vallon deliberately told me a lie?"

The old priest felt cornered. His brain, which was not overbrilliant, though intensely kindly, had to make a choice between calling a man a traitor or a woman a liar. He shrank from either conclusion; he hummed and hawed and did his best to avoid Aurore's searching eyes. In the end he compromised."

"Talon," he said, "may have said something that those poor people misunderstood. And there is no doubt, alas! that, with their minds turned away from God, the devil has a great hold over their souls. But I am sure," he added hopefully, "that they have already regretted their action of the other night."

"Only because they found the granaries empty," Aurore concluded with a shrug.

What was the use of arguing? This incorrigible optimist was as surely courting disaster as was her father with his bitter resentment. She gave an impatient little sigh and returned to the more pleasing subject of stockings and petticoats.