ve and Mme. Ricard went to the Catholic
church. The first Sunday I had gone with them, not knowing at all
whither. I found that would not do; and since then I had tried the
other parties. But I was in a strait; for Miss Maria's church seemed
to me a faded image of Mlle. Genevieve's; the Presbyterian church
which Miss Babbitt went to was stiff and dull; I was not at home in
either of them, and could not understand or enjoy what was spoken. The
very music had an air of incipient petrification, if I can speak so
about sounds. At the little French chapel I could as little comprehend
the words that were uttered. But in the pulpit there was a man with a
shining face; a face full of love and truth and earnestness. He spoke
out of his heart, and no set words; and the singing was simple and
sweet and the hymns beautiful. I could understand them, for I had the
hymn-book in my hands. Also I had the French Bible, and Mme. Jupon,
delighted to have me with her, assured me that if I listened I would
very soon begin to understand the minister's preaching just as well as
if it were English. So I went with Mme. Jupon, and thereby lost some
part of Mlle. Genevieve's favour; but that I did not understand till
afterwards.

We had all been to church as usual, this Sunday, and we were taking
off our hats and things upstairs, after the second service. My simple
toilet was soon made; and I sat upon the side of my little bed,
watching those of my companions. They were a contrast to mine. The
utmost that money could do, to bring girls into the fashion, was done
for these girls; for the patrons of Mme. Ricard's establishment were
nearly all rich.

Costly coats and cloaks, heavily trimmed, were surmounted with every
variety of showy head-gear, in every variety of unsuitableness. To
study bad taste, one would want no better field than the heads of Mme.
Ricard's seventy boarders dressed for church. Not that the articles
which were worn on the heads were always bad; some of them came from
irreproachable workshops; but there was everywhere the bad taste of
overdressing, and nowhere the tact of appropriation. The hats were
all on the wrong heads. Everybody was a testimony of what money can do
without art. I sat on my little bed, vaguely speculating on all this
as I watched my companions disrobing; at intervals humming the sweet
French melody to which the last hymn had been sung; when St. Clair
paused in her talk and threw a glance in my direction. It