to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.

The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and

up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill.

Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering

upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The

postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in

lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their

whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible,

trotting on ahead into the dim distance.

At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,

with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a

poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver,

but he had studied the figure from the lifehis own life, maybe

for it was dreadfully spare and thin.

To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been

growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling.

She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly,

and presented herself at the carriage-door.

“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable

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face, Monseigneur looked out.

“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”

“Monseigneur. For the love of t