THE AMERICAN
ites, you know, is the miserable name. I see you do know, sir. My lady and the Marquis take it very ill. It was only last night she told them."
"Ah, she had kept it back then?" he cried. "Well, that's all right. And they're highly worked up?"
"They're certainly not pleased. But they may well dislike it. They tell me it's most dreadful, sir; of all the nuns in Christendom the Carmelites are the worst. They're so unnatural that you may say they're really not human; they make you give up everything in the world you have—for ever and for ever. And to think of her in that destitution! If I was one who sat down and cried, sir, I could give way at this moment."
Newman looked at her an instant. "We must n't cry, Mrs. Bread, and still less must we sit down. We must stand right up and act. Please let them know." And he took a forward step.
But she gently checked him. "May I take another liberty? I'm told you were with poor Count Valentin, heaven forgive him, in his last hours, and I should bless you, sir, if you could tell me a word about him. He was my own dear boy, sir; for the first year of his life he was hardly out of my arms; I taught him the first words he spoke—and he spoke so beautifully, did n't he, sir? He always spoke well to his poor old Bread. When he grew up and took his pleasure he always had a kind word for me. And to die in that wild wrong way! They've a story that he fought with a wine-merchant. I can't believe that of him, sir! And was he in great pain?"
"You're a wise, kind old woman, Mrs. Bread," said Newman. "I hoped I might see you with my
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