the door of the little chapel, under the shade of the friendly oak. A half-caste Indian boy was seated near them, busily engaged in stripping the birds Robert had shot. The huntsman himself was cleaning his gun; his dogs lay at his feet. The black puppy, which had already made friends with them, was rolling over the tired creatures, who were too sleepy to heed the impudent youngster.
"What you say may be true, father," said Robert, gathering a wisp of grass which he rammed vigorously into, the barrel of his fowling-piece; "but look at the woods. Things die and decompose here; but new flowers bloom every day from what yesterday was foul decay. Look now at this piece of wood,"—he paused in his work and picked up a branch,—"it is quite rotten, it has lain in the water for months; but to-day this beautiful pink flower has bloomed from it. Is not this same thing going on in the world?"
The priest did not answer directly. He looked at his young friend silently for a few moments, and then said: "Dost thou think that thou canst understand the world? Thou art but a boy."
"I have grown ten years older in the last six months," persisted the younger man; "I am a boy no longer; and I now know that I can never live as you do, away from the world."
"I have never counselled it, Robert."
