"How long have you been in
Quebec?"
"Fifteen years, Monsieur. Shall I read to you?"
"No. You came from France?" with a sick man's persistence.
"Yes, Monsieur. Is there something besides reading I can do?"
"Do I look ill?" querulously.
"You are burning with fever." She drew the cool palm of her hand
across his heated forehead.
"Jehan!" called the marquis. The touch of that hand had caused him an
indescribable sensation.
"I am here, Monsieur," replied Jehan.
Sister Benie leaned back out of the sunlight.
"A pitcher of water; I am thirsty."
Jehan took the pitcher fumblingly. He was yellow with fear and wonder.
"You have seen my son?" asked the marquis, when the door closed.
"You ought to be proud of such a son, Monsieur."
The marquis was a bit disconcerted. "I know him well. Do you think he
will become great and respected?"
"He has already become respected." She was vaguely distressed and
puzzled.
"But will he become great?"
"That is for God to decide."
"Of what consists greatness?"
"It is greatness to forgive."
The marquis turned his head away. He was chagrined.
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