We were alone one evening after the holidays. It was cold without, but in my room it was warm and bright. The fire crackled merrily, and the candles gave out a mellow and pleasant light. The Director had gone up to Paris, and his mantle had fallen on me. Edouard sat with his feet stretched to the fender, his curly head buried in the great curved back of my invalid chair, the red fire-light reflected on his childish features. I took pleasure in looking at him. He looked at the coals and knit his brows as if in a puzzle. I often fancied that something weightier than the usual troubles of life weighed upon him. At last he spoke, just as I was about to question him:

“Are you afraid to die, Sebastian?”

Not knowing what else to say, I answered, “No, my child.”

“I wonder if you enjoy life in community?”

This was still stranger. I could but reply that I had never known any other life; that I was fitted for nothing else.

“But still,”persisted he, “would you not like to leave it—to have a career of your own before you die? Do you think this is what a man is created for—to give away his chance to live?”

“Edouard, you are interrogating your own conscience,” I answered. “These are questions which you must have answered yourself before you took your vows. When you answered them you sealed them.”

Perhaps I spoke too harshly, for he coloured and drew up his feet. Such shapely little feet they were. I felt ashamed of my crustiness.

“But, Edouard,” I added, “your vows are those of the novitiate. You are not yet twenty-eight. You have still the right to ask yourself these things. The world is very fair to men of your age. Do not dream that I was angry with you.”

He sat gazing into the fire. His face wore a strange, far-away expression, as he reached forth his hand, in a groping way, and rested it on my knee, clutching the gown nervously. Then he spoke slowly, seeking for words, and keeping his eyes on the flames.

“You have been good to me, Brother Sebastian. Let me ask you: May I tell you something in confidence—something which shall never pass your lips? I mean it.”

He had turned and poured those marvellous eyes into mine with irresistible magnetism. Of course I said, “Speak!” and I said it without the slightest hesitation.

“I am not a Christian Brother. I do not belong to your Order. I have no claim upon the hospitality of this roof. I am an impostor!”

He ejected these astounding sentences with an energy almost fierce, gripping my knee meanwhile. Then, as suddenly, his grasp relaxed, and he fell to weeping bitterly.

I stared at him solemnly, in silence. My tongue seemed paralysed. Confusing thoughts whirled in a maze unbidden through my head. I could say nothing. But a strange impulse prompted me to reach out and take his hot hand in mine. It was piteous to hear him sobbing, his head upon his raised arm, his whole frame quivering with emotion. I had never seen any one weep like that before. So I sat dumb, trying in vain to answer this bewildering self-accusation. At last there came out of the folds of the chair the words, faint and tearchoked:

“You have promised me secrecy, and you will keep your word; but you will hate me.”