here was an every-day cheerfulness of small business in
the shops and tented stands about the square on which the church faced,
and through which there was continual passing of heavy burdens from the
port, swift calashes, and slow, country-paced market-carts.

Mr. Arbuton made no motion to enter the church, and Kitty would not hint
the curiosity she felt to see the interior; and while they lingered a
moment, the door opened, and a peasant came out with a little coffin in
his arms. His eyes were dim and his face wet with weeping, and he bore
the little coffin tenderly, as if his caress might reach the dead child
within. Behind him she came who must be the mother, her face deeply
hidden in her veil. Beside the pavement waited a shabby calash, with a
driver half asleep on his perch; and the man, still clasping his
precious burden, clambered into the vehicle, and laid it upon his knees,
while the woman groped, through her tears and veil, for the step. Kitty
and her companion had moved reverently aside; but now Mr. Arbuton came
forward, and helped the woman to her place. She gave him a hoarse, sad
"_Merci!_" and spread a fold of her shawl fondly over the end of the
little coffin; the drowsy driver whipped up his beast, and the calash
jolted away.

Kitty cast a grateful glance upon Mr. Arbuton, as they now entered the
church, by a common impulse. On their way towards the high-altar they
passed the rude black bier, with the tallow candles yet smoking in their
black wooden candlesticks. A few worshippers were dropped here and there
in the vacant seats, and at a principal side-altar knelt a poor woman
praying before a wooden effigy of the dead Christ that lay in a glass
case under the altar. The image was of life-size, and was painted to
represent life, or rather death, with false hair and beard, and with the
muslin drapery managed to expose the stigmata: it was stretched upon a
bed strewn with artificial flowers; and it was dreadful. But the poor
soul at her devotions there prayed to it in an ecstasy of supplication,
flinging her arms asunder with imploring gesture, clasping her hands and
bowing her head upon them, while her person swayed from side to side in
the abandon of her prayer. Who could she be, and what was her mighty
need of blessing or forgiveness? As her wont was, Kitty threw her own
soul into the imagined case of the suppliant, the tragedy of her desire
or sorrow. Yet, like all who suffer sympathetically, she was n