down on all the green
graves with their fresh flowers and plants. Soon we heard the sound of
the chaunt, and the procession wound slowly up the steep, straggling
village street. A banner and cross carried by the boys and girls--then
the cure, with his "ostensoir," followed by his "enfants de choeur"
carrying books and tapers, then the congregation. There were a great
many people already in the cemetery. The little procession halted at the
foot of the cross in the middle. There were several prayers and psalms,
and then the cure made the tour of the cemetery, sprinkling all the
graves with holy water and saying a short prayer at each. The procession
broke up into groups, all kneeling at the different graves praying for
their dead. There were not many men; a few old ones. They were not
kneeling, but stood reverently, with bowed heads, when the cure passed.
It was a pretty sight--the kneeling figures, the flower-covered graves,
the little procession winding in and out among the tombstones, the white
soutanes of the boys shining in the sun and not a sound except the
droning of the chaunts. As it was fete--one of the great religious fetes
of the year--there was no work going on--no labourers in the fields, no
carts on the road--nothing but the great stillness of the plains.

We had our cure at dinner. We were quite sure no one else would ask him
and it seemed a shame to leave him in his empty "presbytere" on a fete
day. I think his evenings with us are the only bright spots in his life
just now. The situation of the priests is really wretched and their
future most uncertain. This government has taken away the very small
stipend they allowed them. Our cure got his house and nine hundred
francs a year--not quite two hundred dollars. In many cases they have
refused to let the priests live in their "presbyteres" unless they pay
rent. The churches are still open. They can have their services if they
like, but those who have no fortune (which is the case with most of
them) are entirely dependent upon the voluntary contribution of their
parishioners.

Our little cure has no longer his servant--the traditional, plain,
middle-aged bonne of the priest (they are not allowed to have a woman
servant under fifty). He lives quite alone in his cold, empty house and
has a meal of some kind brought into him from the railway cafe. What is
hardest for him is never to have an extra franc to give to his poor. He
is profoundly discouraged, but do