could be called. It was but a small
enclosure, and thick set with old monuments and humbler memorials, open
books of iron on slender supports, their inscriptions dimmed by the
rust of time, small stones set up by loving peasant hands, and one
fresh grave covered with evergreen branches. Alma understood that on
that grave she must place the wreath of white flowers that had lain in
her lap, and there her father would lay the one beautiful fair lily he
held in his hand.

This tribute of love was paid in mournful silence, and then the father
and the children passed into the simple old sanctuary.

The church was even more peculiar within than without. It was white
everywhere--walls, ceiling, and the plain massive pillars of strong
masonry on which rested the low round arches. It looked more like a
crypt under some great building than if it were itself the temple. The
small windows, crossed by iron gratings, added to the prison-like
effect of the whole. It was but a prison for the air of the latest
summer days, shut in there to greet the worshippers, instead of the
chill that might have been expected.

Warm was the atmosphere, and warm the colouring of the heraldic devices
telling in armorial language what noble families had there treasured
their dead. The altar, without chancel-rail, stood on a
crimson-covered platform. On each side of it, at a respectful
distance, were two stately monuments, on which two marble heroes were
resting, one in full armour, and the other in elaborate court-dress.
Alma could see that there were many names on the largest of these
monuments, and her eyes filled with tears as she saw her mother's dear
name, freshly cut below the list of her honoured ancestors.

The father did not look at the monument, or round the church at all.
With eyes cast down, he entered a long wide pew, with a heraldic device
on the light arch above the door. Prudently first placing little Frans
at the end of the bare bench, he took his place, with Alma on the other
side of him.

The church was almost empty. A few old bald-headed peasants were
scattered here and there, and on the organ-loft stairs clattered the
thick shoes of the school children, who were to assist in the singing.

The father bowed his head too long for the opening prayer. Alma
understood that he had forgotten himself in his own sad thoughts. Her
little slender hand sought his, that hung at his side, and her fragile
figure crowded protective