ting, and through the dusky archway came a
procession. First a tall white crucifix borne between two swinging
lamps; then the surpliced choir-boys, chanting; then the incense and the
priests; then a coffin, draped, and carried in the old way on the
shoulders of the bearers, who were men robed in long-hooded black gowns
reaching to the feet, their faces covered, with only two holes for the
eyes. These were members of the Society of Black Penitents, who, with
the White Penitents, attend funerals by turn, and care for the sick and
poor, from charitable motives alone, and without reward. Behind the
Penitents walked the relatives and friends, each with a little lighted
taper. As the procession came through the dark archway, crossed the
street, and wound up the hill into the "old town," its effect, with
the glancing lights and chanting voices, was weirdly picturesque. It was
on its way to the cemetery above.

[Illustration: THE KING OF THE OLIVES]

"Did you ever read this, Mr. Lloyd?" I heard Margaret say behind me, as
we went onward towards home:

"'One day, in desolate wind-swept space,
In twilight-land, in no-man's-land,
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.
"And who art thou?" cried one, agape,
Shuddering in the gloaming light.
"I do not know," said the second Shape:
"I only died last night."'"

I turned. Lloyd was looking at her curiously, or rather with wonder.

"Come, Margaret," I said, falling behind so as to join them, "the
English are not mystical, as some of us are. They are content with what
they can definitely know, and they leave the rest."

During the next week, after a long discussion, we decided to go up the
valley of the Nervia. The discussion was not inharmonious: we liked
discussions.

"This is by no means one of the ordinary Mentone excursions," said Mrs.
Clary, as our three carriages ascended the Cornice Road towards the
east, on a beautiful morning after one of the rare showers. "Many
explore all of the other valleys, and visit Monaco and Monte Carlo; but
comparatively few go up the Nervia."

The scene of the instalment of our twelve selves in these three
carriages, by-the-way, was amusing. Between the inward determination of
Inness, Verney, Baker, and the Professor to be in the carriage which
held Janet, and the equally firm determination of Miss Elaine to be in
the carriage which held _them_, it seemed as if we should never