Olive had lived on it ever since the day it was preached.

The poor mother was almost ready to repent having ever afforded her the opportunity of hearing it.

Meat and drink had become of secondary value to her daughter; she fed upon the sermon.
Olive felt her mother's thought and knew that her mother knew her own; but now that she had confessed, she would ask a question: "Do you think, _maman_, that Pere Jerome knows it was I who gave that missal ?" "No," said Madame Delphine, "I am sure he does not." Another question came more timidly: "Do--do you think he knows _him_ ?" "Yes, I do.

He said in his sermon he did." Both remained for a long time very still, watching the moon gliding in and through among the small dark-and-white clouds.

At last the daughter spoke again.
"I wish I was Pere--I wish I was as good as Pere Jerome." "My child," said Madame Delphine, her tone betraying a painful summoning of strength to say what she had lacked the courage to utter,--"my child, I pray the good God you will not let your heart go after one whom you may never see in this world!" The maiden turned her glance, and their eyes met.