Denise Mornay-Mareuil in Quebec. And Louise sacrilegiously crossed herself.
"So beautiful," he agreed, "that Aunt Denise will take it straight to her chapel and lay it across the altar where she says her prayers. You know your father's theory that despite oneself one plays into the hands of the priests. How are you going to get around that, little heretic?"
"By writing to Aunt Denise that it's for her bureau! My conscience will be clear. Besides, I'm making it to give her pleasure, and if it pleases her to put it on the altar where she prays for that old scamp, then why not? She loved him, and that's enough for her,—the poor dear cross old funny!"
"Would an atheist altar cloth intercept Aunt Denise's Roman prayers? Perhaps turn them into curses?"
Louise ignored this and bit off a piece of silk. "Besides, I'm not such a limited heretic as Papa. I'm a comprehensive heretic."
"What kind of thing is that, for goodness' sake?"
"It's a kind of thing that pays more attention to people's gists than to whether they cross their i's and dot their t's. It's a kind of thing that's going out to the pantry and get you something to eat before bed time, even though it knows it's bad for you."
From a recalcitrant little garden in front of the log house, Louise could follow the figure of her hus-
