st
peace. Still, within her there arose, out of her very anguish, a
fierce flood of joy. She hugged her sorrow, dreading lest the priest
might succeed in finding a cure for it. Ten minutes slipped away, then
an hour. She was overwhelmed by the strife raging within her heart.

At last she raised her head, her eyes glistening with tears, and saw
Abbe Jouve gazing at her sorrowfully. It was he who was directing the
workmen. Having recognized Jeanne, he had just come forward.

"Why, what is the matter, my child?" he asked of Helene, who hastened
to rise to her feet and wipe away her tears.

She was at a loss what answer to give; she was afraid lest she should
once more fall on her knees and burst into sobs. He approached still
nearer, and gently resumed:

"I do not wish to cross-question you, but why do you not confide in
me? Confide in the priest and forget the friend."

"Some other day," she said brokenly, "some other day, I promise you."

Jeanne meantime had at first been very good and patient, finding
amusement in looking at the stained-glass windows, the statues over
the great doorway, and the scenes of the journey to the Cross depicted
in miniature bas-reliefs along the aisles. By degrees, however, the
cold air of the church had enveloped her as with a shroud; and she
remained plunged in a weariness that even banished thought, a feeling
of discomfort waking within her with the holy quiet and far-reaching
echoes, which the least sound stirred in this sanctuary where she
imagined she was going to die. But a grievous sorrow rankled in her
heart--the flowers were being borne away. The great clusters of roses
were vanishing, and the altar seemed to become more and more bare and
chill. The marble looked icy-cold now that no wax-candle shone on it
and there was no smoking incense. The lace-robed Virgin moreover was
being moved, and after suddenly tottering fell backward into the arms
of two workmen. At the sight Jeanne uttered a faint cry, stretched out
her arms, and fell back rigid; the illness that had been threatening
her for some days had at last fallen upon her.

And when Helene, in distraction, carried her child, with the
assistance of the sorrowing Abbe, into a cab, she turned towards the
porch with outstretched, trembling hands.

"It's all this church! it's all this church!" she exclaimed, with a
vehemence instinct with regret and self-reproach as she thought of the
month of devout delight which she herself