"
"You talk as they write in novels," said Alice. "I've read about
just such things in them. Wouldn't it be grand if I should turn
out to be some great personage in disguise!"
The mention of novels reminded Father Beret of that terrible book,
Manon Lescaut, which he last saw in Alice's possession, and he
could not refrain from mentioning it in a voice that shuddered.
"Rest easy, Father Beret," said Alice; "that is one novel I have
found wholly distasteful to me. I tried to read it, but could not
do it, I flung it aside in utter disgust. You and mother
Roussillon are welcome to hide it deep as a well, for all I care.
I don't enjoy reading about low, vile people and hopeless
unfortunates; I like sweet and lovely heroines and strong, high-
souled, brave heroes."
"Read about the blessed saints, then, my daughter; you will find
in them the true heroes and heroines of this world," said Father
Beret.
M. Roussillon changed the subject, for he always somehow dreaded
to have the good priest fall into the strain of argument he was
about to begin. A stray sheep, no matter how refractory, feels a
touch of longing when it hears the shepherd's voice. M. Roussillon
was a Catholic, but a straying one, who avoided the confessional
and often forgot mass. Still, with all his reckless independence,
and with all his outward show of large and breezy self-
sufficiency, he was not altogether free from the hold that the
church had laid upon him in childhood and youth.
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