Father Henwick laughed; but the tired expression of her face did not escape him.
“I am afraid you will be growing too conceited if this sort of thing goes on,” he said. “But you must not overdo it, my dear child; it won’t do to wear yourself out in gaining arithmetical triumphs.”
“Better wear out than rust out.” And Franceline shrugged her shoulders; she had learned the expressive French trick from her father.
The priest bent his clear eyes on her for a second without speaking. She read, disappointment, and perhaps mild reproach, in them.
“I am sorry I said that, father; I did not mean to complain.”
“Because it was cowardly and ungrateful.”
“To you, who are so kind and so patient with me!”
“And who bids me be kind? Who teaches me to be patient with you?--poor little bruised lamb!”
“I know it, father; I feel it in the bottom of my heart; but one can’t always be remembering.” There was the slightest touch of impatience in her tone.
“How if God were some day to grow tired of remembering us, and bearing with us, and forgiving us?”
“I know. But I am not rebelling; only sickening and suffering. You have told me there was no sin in that?” The words came tremulous, as if through rising tears; but Franceline raised her head with a defiant movement, and forced the briny drops down. “I cannot help it!” she continued impetuously; “I have tried my best, and I cannot help it!”
Father Henwick heaved an almost inaudible sigh before he said: “What cannot you help, Franceline? Suffering?”
“No! I don’t care about that! Remembering I cannot forget.”
“My poor child! would to God I could help you! I would suffer willingly in your place!” The words came like a gush from his inmost heart. They broke down the sufferer’s proud resistance and let the tears have vent. He turned to walk back with her. For some time neither spoke; only the soft sobs that came unchecked from Franceline broke the temple-like stillness of the wood. Suddenly she cried out in a tone of passionate desperation: “O father! it is dreadful. It will kill me if it lasts much longer! The humiliation is more than I can bear! To feel that I am harboring a feeling that my whole soul rebels against, that is revolting in the eyes of God and of my conscience! And I cannot master it!”