the
wind.

They followed these directions, but failed to find the place, and
applied to another old woman eating soup on her door-step.

'Suivez le chemin droit en tombant a gauche' was the reply, with a wave
of the spoon to all the points of the compass.

'Great heavens, what a language!' cried Lavinia, who had been vainly
endeavouring to 'support' herself, as she 'fell' in every direction over
and into the full gutters.

The house was found at last, an ancient, mysterious place, with a very
curious window, carved to look as if the shutters were half open, and
from behind one peeped a man's head, from the other a woman's, both so
life-like that it quite startled the strangers. Murray informed the
observers that these servants are supposed to be looking anxiously for
their master's return, Jacques having suddenly disappeared, after
lending much money to the king, who took that mediaeval way of paying his
debts.

Service was being held in the church, and the ladies went in to rest
and listen, for the music was fine. Much red and white drapery gave the
sanctuary the appearance of a gay drawing-room, and the profane Lavinia
compared the officiating clergy to a set of red furniture. The biggest
priest was the sofa, four deacons the arm-chairs, and three little boys
the foot-stools, all upholstered in crimson silk, and neatly covered
with lace tidies.

As if to rebuke her frivolity, a lovely fresh voice from the hidden
choir suddenly soared up like a lark, singing so wonderfully that a
great stillness fell on the listeners, and while it lasted the tawdry
church and its mummery were quite forgotten, as the ear led the heart up
that ladder of sweet sounds to heaven. Even when the others joined in,
one could still hear that child-voice soaring and singing far above the
rest, as if some little angel were playing with the echoes among the
arches of the roof.

A proud native informed the strangers that it was a poor boy whose
exquisite voice was the pride of the town, and would in time make his
fortune. As the choir-boys came racing down stairs after service,
pulling off their dingy robes as they ran, Lavinia tried to pick out the
little angel, but gave it up in despair, for a more uninteresting set of
bullet-headed, copper-coloured sprigs she never saw.

Rain drove the wanderers back to the hotel, and there they made a night
of it. Ordering a fire in the largest of the three stuffy little cells
which they occupied, the