“ Bonne petite amie! ” said he, softly; “ douce consolatrice! ” 236 But through his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought found a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or brother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity?

His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alley broke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodeful forms⁠—a woman’s and a priest’s⁠—Madame Beck and Père Silas.