t is holy, and feel the light resting on
her, full of the glory of the painted windows and the color that is joy
and rest? Because, if there had not been the church, my St. Etienne du
Mont, that I know from a child, if there had not been that, I must have
died. And so I have wondered if your country had this gift also for the
worker, and, if it has not bread enough, has at least something that
feeds the soul. Is it so, madame?"

Poor old Rose, once weaver in silk and with cheeks like her name,
looking at me now with her sad eyes, blue and clear still in spite of
her almost seventy years, and full of the patience born of long struggle
and acceptance! St. Etienne had drawn me as it had drawn her, and it was
in the apse, the light streaming from the ancient windows, each one a
marvel of color whose secret no man to-day has penetrated, that I saw
first the patient face and the clasped hands of this suppliant, who
prayed there undisturbed by any thought of watching eyes, and who rose
presently and went slowly down the aisles, with a face that might have
taken its place beside the pictured saints to whom she had knelt. Her
_sabots_ clicked against the pavement worn by many generations of feet,
and her old fingers still moved mechanically, telling the beads which
she had slipped out of sight.

"You love the little church," I said; and she answered instantly, with a
smile that illumined the old face, "Indeed, yes; and why not? It is home
and all that is good, and it is so beautiful, madame. There is none like
it. I go to the others sometimes, above all to Notre Dame, which also is
venerable and dear, and where one may worship well. But always I return
here; for the great church seems to carry my prayers away, and they are
half lost in such bigness, and it is not so bright and so joyous as
this. For here the color lifts the heart, and I seem to rise in my soul
also, and I know every pillar and ornament, for my eyes study often when
my lips pray; but it is all one worship, madame, else I should shut them
close. But the good God and the saints know well that I am always
praying, and that it is my St. Etienne that helps, and that is so
beautiful I must pray when I see it."

This was the beginning of knowing Rose, and in good time her whole story
was told,--a very simple one, but a record that stands for many like it.
There was neither discontent nor repining. Born among workers, she had
filled her place, content to fill it, and o