They sat down side by side, Father Beret
fingering the letter in an absent-minded way.
"There'll be a jolly time of it to-night," Rene de Ronville
remarked, "a roaring time."
"Why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded.
"The wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be
done. The men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and
are as thirsty as sand. They are making ready to enjoy themselves
down at the river house."
"Ah, the poor souls!" sighed Father Beret, speaking as one whose
thoughts were wandering far away.
"Why don't you read your letter, Father?" Rene added.
The priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his
hand, then thrust it inside his robe.
"It can wait," he said. Then, changing his voice; "the squirrels
you gave me were excellent, my son. It was good of you to think of
me," he added, laying his hand on Rene's arm.
"Oh, I'm glad if I have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are so
kind to me always, and to everybody. When I killed the squirrels I
said to myself: 'These are young, juicy and tender, Father Beret
must have these,' so I brought them along."
The young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that Father
Beret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer
to be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again.
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