meditation, and felt the deep sweet peace one
should feel in the house of God was in an old church in the village of
St. Pierre Oleron; my great grandfather Samuel had, at the time of
the persecutions, worshipped and prayed there, and my mother had also
attended it during her girlhood days. . . . I also loved those little
country churches to which we sometimes went on Sunday in the summer
time: they were generally old and had simple whitewashed walls. They
were built any where and every where, in a corner of a wheat field with
wild flowers growing all about them; or in more retired places, in the
centre of some enclosure at the far end of an avenue of old trees. The
Catholics have nothing, in my opinion, which surpasses in religious
charm these humble little sanctuaries of our Protestant ancestors--not
even do their most exquisite stone chapels hidden away in the depth
of the Breton woods, that at a later time I learned to admire so much,
touch me so deeply.

I still held fast to my determination to become a minister; it still
seemed to me that that was my duty. I had pledged myself, in my prayers
I had given my word to God. How could I therefore break my vow?

But when my young mind busied itself with thoughts of the future, more
and more veiled from me by an impenetrable darkness, my preference was
for a church which should be a little isolated from the noisy world, for
one where the faith of my congregation should ever remain simple, for
one receiving its consecration from a long past of prayers and sincerest
worship.

It would be in the Island of Oleron perhaps!

Yes; there, surrounded upon every side by the memories of my Huguenot
ancestors, I could look forward without dread, indeed with much
contentment, to a life dedicated to the service of the Lord.

CHAPTER XXX.

My brother had arrived at the Delightful Island. His first letter dated
from there was a very long one, it was written on thin paper that had
been stained a light yellow by the sea, for it had been upon its way
four months.

It was a great event in our family, and I still recall that as my father
and mother broke its seal, I sprang joyously up the stairs, two steps
at a time, in my haste to reach the second floor and call my grandmother
and aunts from their rooms.

Inside the plump-feeling envelope, which was covered over with South
American stamps, there was a note for me, and enclosed in this I found
a pressed flower, a sort of f