You ask--" The poor old man felt his heart rent in twain.

Such a question at such a moment! Yet he thought he knew the boy's heart, and in that heart there should not be room for such thoughts.
"Pray, dear godfather, tell me," continued Jean, gently.

"I will explain to you afterward why I ask that." "Well, they say your father had 200,000 or 300,000 francs." "And is that much ?" "Yes, it is a great deal." "And it is all mine ?" "Yes, it is all yours." "Oh! I am glad, because, you know, the day that my father was killed in the war, the Prussians killed, at the same time, the son of a poor woman in Longueval--old Clemence, you know; and they killed, too, the brother of Rosalie, with whom I used to play when I was quite little.

Well, since I am rich and they are poor, I will divide with Clemence and Rosalie the money my father has left me." On hearing these words the Cure rose, took Jean by both hands, and drew him into his arms.

The white head rested on the fair one.