Mrs. Hardy was afraid that Eugene was going to be ill. Several times while giving her an account of his visit to the Mannings he relapsed into long, troubled silences.

As soon as he had finished his recital she sent him to bed, and shortly afterwards she came and stood over him with a medicine bottle in her hand.

He asked no questions; and after quickly taking what she gave him, he kissed her hand, and closing his eyes, fell into a troubled sleep.

In the morning he seemed more cheerful, but he still acted like a boy in a dream; and the sergeant muttered, “That lad doesn’t hear more than half of what is said to him. He’s in a dead worry about this business of going away. Now I must have a few last words with the priest. Come out into the garden, mussoo, it’s[Pg 189] a fine morning;” and he took his guest out-of-doors.

“Now, look here, sir,” he said firmly, and he seized a button on the priest’s cassock, “this is your last day in Boston; and I want to tell you before you take that boy to France, that you’re to consider yourself as free as air to send him back at any time it suits you and him, for I guess his grand-uncle isn’t going to interfere much with him.”

The curé hardly understood a word of what the sergeant said, and the worthy man did not expect that he would. The sergeant had formulated a system about conversing with the curé. The first time he uttered sentences he rattled them off in any way just to accustom the foreigner to the sound of the words. The next time he repeated them slowly, the third time more slowly, and with a liberal illustration of gestures in order to make his meaning entirely plain.

Therefore, when the curé had heard a trio of these sentences, accompanied by a far-away fling of his host’s hand to denote France, a[Pg 190] nearer one for Boston, and a comprehensive sweep through the air to indicate freedom of action, he understood perfectly, and nodded his acquiescence and approval of the plan.

“But I think he weel not return,” he said.

“You don’t know anything about it,” said the sergeant. “He is a queer lad; and like most young fellows, and some old ones, he does what you don’t think he will do, and what you think he will do, he won’t.”

“Pardon,” said the curé.

“I can’t make you see that,” said the sergeant decidedly, “because there isn’t any scope for gestures, so we’ll let it pass. Now, I want to tell you that I have a nest-egg, and my wife has expectations, or rather a surety from a rich aunt, so the boy wouldn’t suffer if he came back. We could educate him like a gentleman.”

“Eggs,” exclaimed the curé in delight as a familiar word broke upon his ear in the first utterance of a sentence. “Hens lay eggs.”

“Yes,” said the sergeant, “hens and eggs go together; but good gracious, you’ve got me off[Pg 191] the track, and if I go to explain my meaning to you, you’ll get all tangled up in a chicken-coop. Forget it, mussoo.”

“Forget eggs; no, I remembare,” said the curé reproachfully.

“I guess I’ll have to dispose of that,” said the sergeant desperately. “What did I want to use the old expression for? Hens are useful creatures;” and to expedite matters he began to flap his arms and cluck, and then brought his hands near the ground to measure off the dimensions of a hen of respectable appearance.

“Eggs are good for eating,” said the curé amiably.

“Yes, fine,” said the sergeant; and he drew a handful of silver from his pocket. “Do you see that?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Money—good stuff to have—well, I’ve a lot of it—heaps;” and he began to build an airy pyramid on the ground. “Savings, you know, and a little I had left me by my parents—enough to educate a boy.”

“Yes, I comprehend,” said the curé, delighted[Pg 192] beyond measure at his own keenness; “you sell eggs, you make money. One does it in France. One sells all things.”

“All right,” said the sergeant philosophically. “Have me sell eggs or anything you like, the money is there, anyway, and the boy is welcome to it. Hello, here he is. Come here, lad, and dash this off to your protector. You are now in America, you start for France in a few hours; you may stay there six weeks, or six months, or six years, or all your life; but unless you hear from us that we have forgotten you or changed our minds, you’re at liberty to come here and live with us at any time. Do you understand that?”

“I do,” said Eugene; “and I thank you.”

While he was talking to the curé, the sergeant sighed heavily, and went sauntering down the walk to the gate, and out through it to the park. He was not as sanguine as his wife about Eugene’s reluctance to leave them, and he could not bear to remain at home on this the last day of his stay with them.

[Pg 193]

When he returned for dinner in the middle of the day he exerted himself to be cheerful; but he disappeared immediately afterward, and did not come back until late in the afternoon, in time to take Eugene and the priest to the train.

All day long Eugene had followed Mrs. Hardy about the house, waiting on her in a quiet and unobtrusive way, but saying very little. He did not understand her; but she understood him perfectly, and she saw that as yet there was no flagging in his resolve to go to France.

He wondered that this woman, who professed to love him so much and who cried so easily, had not yet, as far as he had known, shed a tear over his departure. She did not even break down when they reached the station, and saw before them the long line of cars on which he was to be whirled away from her.

Eugene shuddered at the sight, and clung convulsively to her hand. “Do you feel that you ought not to go?” she asked quietly.

[Pg 194]

“No, no,” said the boy in a tortured voice. “I only feel it horrible to go; yet it is for the best, and it is duty. I shall come back some day.”

“Wife,” said the sergeant inexorably, “it is time for them to get on board the train. Good-by, son.”

“Good-by,” said Eugene, shaking hands with him; “you have been good to me. I thank you”—and here his voice failed him, and he groped blindly for Mrs. Hardy.

When he felt her arms around him, he whispered three words in her ear—the words she had longed to hear, and that he had never given her until now.

“I love you,” he breathed with his eager lips against her cheek; and then he added with a heartbroken sigh, “if I were not a beggar I should have stayed with you; but I am proud”—here he broke off, and without looking at her again, rushed into the car and took his seat.

The curé followed him slowly and cautiously, put in one of his capacious pockets the[Pg 195] checks and tickets that the sergeant handed to him; then the conductor shouted, the crowd of people stepped back, and the train moved off.

Eugene remained motionless and silent in his corner of the seat. He did not speak until they reached the Fall River station, and there he contented himself with monosyllabic replies to the curé’s remarks.

Upon arriving on the steamer the curé sauntered wonderingly about, taking in the details of the life on board this floating palace. He would want to describe it accurately upon reaching home, for he knew that the peasants of Chatillon-sur-Loir were capable of taking in accounts of greater wonders than these.

Eugene had gone immediately to bed. After an hour or two the curé followed him. Before turning into his berth for the night, he looked at the one above him. The boy lay with his arm over his face. Probably he had been asleep for some time.

Being tired, and having a mind at peace[Pg 196] with himself and the world, the priest slept soundly and happily until shortly after daybreak. Then he got up; and after gazing through his small window at the red ball of the sun, he raised his eyes to the upper berth where he supposed Eugene was still sleeping.

To his surprise and distress the lad was crouched in a corner, his limbs convulsed, his face rigid, and his hands tightly clasped in the bedclothes.

“How now, little one—art thou having a fit?” exclaimed the priest in his own language. “Let me dash some water in thy face. Oh, this is pitiful!”

Eugene stretched out his hand in a forbidding way, but did not reply to him.

“Thou art having a spasm,” said the priest. “I am sure of it. Let me seek a doctor. Oh! what is the matter with thee?”

“It is that woman,” gasped Eugene. “Oh! I cannot endure it.”

“A woman!” repeated the priest, inspecting the narrow dimensions of their room in great amazement; “there is no woman here.”

[Pg 197]

“It is that woman yonder, monsieur le curé,” said Eugene respectfully, and yet with restrained anger; “there is but one woman that I consider—the one who has been so peerless for me. Oh! I wish to see her. I wish to see her;” and he flung himself about his berth in a paroxysm of regret and passion.

“Poor little one,” said the priest, “hast thou been suffering all through the long night?”

“I have not slept,” said Eugene miserably. “I have sat up and thought of many things. I wish to go back. I cannot endure this.”

“I will be a mother to thee,” said the priest soothingly; “and thou canst write to that good woman.”

“She will not care for letters,” exclaimed Eugene. “She wishes me, and I wish her. When I lie down at night she wishes me happy dreams. I did not know that I cared for it until last night when she was not here. I must go back to her. I shall go back;” and he surveyed his companion in open defiance.

The priest was puzzled. “Dost thou desire to remain always in this country?” he said.

[Pg 198]

“Yes,” Eugene returned with sudden coolness. “If that woman should die, possibly I might return to France. While she lives I will stay with her.”

“Thou art an obstinate child,” muttered the curé to himself, “and I believe thee. Neither the church nor the world restrains the de Vargas. They are unruly, like the wild boars.” Then he said aloud,—“What dost thou propose to do?”

“To return now,” cried Eugene, flinging up his head, “now, monsieur le curé. With your permission I will go back—I will say to her I am sorry for the disturbances I have made you. In future I shall try to be more peaceful.”

“My life will be less lively without thee,” observed the curé thoughtfully; “and were I alone concerned thou wouldst freely have my consent to remain, but thy grand-uncle”—

“Tell him,” said Eugene with bent brows and flashing eyes, “tell him that he has no authority over me. That I refuse the meagre sum that he would dole out to me. In this[Pg 199] country I will learn how to support myself; yet also tell him that since I love that woman I hate him less.”

“Thou art a fiery lad,” murmured the curé with resignation. “If thy grand-uncle were a de Vargas I would need to soften that message.”

“Have I your permission to return?” asked Eugene urgently.

“Thou hast. Of what use would it be to withhold it?” said the curé frankly.

“Of no use,” replied the boy with a relieved gesture; “for this morning I find myself capable of running away. As soon as we arrive in New York I will leave you;” and a bright smile stole over his face.

The curé seized his black hat, and went for a stroll on the deck, where he was a few minutes later joined by a new Eugene,—a happy, contented boy, who seized his hand, and begged forgiveness for the determined manner in which he had just addressed him.

“Droll little lad,” said the priest, “I wonder what thy life will be? I say to thee as[Pg 200] that good man said yesterday, thou hast a friend in me away in France. My cottage door will always be open to thee.”

Eugene pressed one of the curé’s hands in both of his, while tears stood in his eyes. Then they went below to have breakfast; and while the boy was eating and drinking in a dainty, half-famish............