"It is good, my daughter, very good, indeed," the priest remarked
with his mouth full. "Madame Roussillon has not neglected your
culinary education." Alice filled a glass for him. It was Bordeaux
and very fragrant. The bouquet reminded him of his sunny boyhood
in France, of his journey up to Paris and of his careless, joy-
brimmed youth in the gay city. How far away, how misty, yet how
thrillingly sweet it all was! He sat with half closed eyes awhile,
sipping and dreaming.
The rain lasted nearly two hours; but the sun was out again when
Pere Beret took leave of his young friend. They had been having
another good-natured quarrel over the novels, and Madame
Roussillon had come out on the veranda to join in.
"I've hidden every book of them," said Madame, a stout and swarthy
woman whose pearl-white teeth were her only mark of beauty. Her
voice indicated great stubbornness.
"Good, good, you have done your very duty, Madame," said Pere
Beret, with immense approval in his charming voice.
"But, Father, you said awhile ago that I should have my own way
about this," Alice spoke up with spirit; "and on the strength of
that remark of yours I gave you the pie and wine. You've eaten my
pie and swigged the wine, and now--"
Pere Beret put on his straw cap, adjusting it carefully over the
shining dome out of which had come so many thoughts of wisdom,
kindness and human sympathy.
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