quick glance upon the dozing matron, the backs of people whose conversation buzzed about his ears, and returned to Jeanne’s childlike white eyelids and crucifix-folding hands.

“Whom do you love, Sainte Jeanne?”

“I love my father so much, and my mother; and the children are too dear to me. Sometimes when I rise in the night to pray, and think of living apart from my dear father, the cold sweat stands on my forehead. Too many dear people throng between the soul and heaven. Even you, Sieur de la Salle,—I have to pray against thoughts of you.”