and I get from the gover’ment a hundred dollars of the money he stole. It was found on him when he was killed. I work for six months longer, and now I come back—with Luc’s money."
She drew from her pocket a packet of notes, and put it in Luc’s hands. He took it dazedly, then dropped it, and the Little Chemist picked it up; he had no prescription like that in his pharmacopœia.
"That’s how I’ve lived," she said, and she handed a letter to the Curé.
It was from a priest in Montreal, setting forth the history of her career in that city, her repentance for her elopement and the sin of marrying a Protestant, and her good life. She had wished to do her penance in Pontiac, and it remained to m’sieu’ le Curé; to set it. The Curé’s face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it.
He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly listening.
"You did not love Luc?" the Curé asked Junie, meaningly.
"I did not love Luc—then," she answered, a flush going over her face.
"You loved Junie?" the Curé said to Pomfrette.
"I could have killed her, but I’ve always loved her," answered Luc. Then he raised his voice excitedly: "I love her, love her, love her—but what’s the good! She’d never ’ve been happy with me. Look what my love drove her to! What’s the good, at all!"
"She said she did not love you then, Luc Michee," said Parpon, interrupting. "Luc Michée, you’re a fool as well as a sinner. Speak up, Junie."
"I used to tell him that I didn’t love him; I only
