f the created
matter that she beheld with her own eyes, she almost personified the
Eternal God with what she knew of His work, without having a very clear
idea as to what this mysterious Maker might really be.

She believed in Him firmly, adored Him theoretically, feared Him very
vaguely, for she did not profess to understand His intentions or His
will, having a very limited confidence in the priests, whom she regarded
merely as the sons of peasants revolting from military service.
Her father, a middle-class Parisian, never had imposed upon her any
particular principles of devotion, and she had lived on thinking little
about religious matters until her marriage. Then, her new station in
life indicating more strictly her apparent duties toward the Church, she
had conformed punctiliously to this light servitude, as do so many of
her station.

She was lady patroness to numerous and very well known infant asylums,
never failed to attend mass at one o'clock on Sundays, gave alms for
herself directly, and for the world by means of an abbe, the vicar of
her parish.

She had often prayed, from a sense of duty, as a soldier mounts guard
at a general's door. Sometimes she had prayed because her heart was
sad, especially when she suspected Olivier of infidelity to her. At such
times, without confiding to Heaven the cause for her appeal, treating
God with the same naive hypocrisy that is shown to a husband, she asked
Him to succor her. When her father died, long before, and again quite
recently, at her mother's death, she had had violent crises of religious
fervor, and had passionately implored Him who watches over us and
consoles us.

And, now behold! to-day, in that church where she had entered by chance,
she suddenly felt a profound need to pray, not for some one nor for some
thing, but for herself, for herself alone, as she had already prayed the
other day at her mother's grave. She must have help from some source,
and she called on God now as she had summoned the physician that very
morning.

She remained a long time on her knees, in the deep silence of the
church, broken only by the sound of footsteps. Then suddenly, as if a
clock had struck in her heart, she awoke from her memories, drew out her
watch and started to see that it was already four o'clock. She hastened
away to take her daughter to the studio, where Olivier must already be
expecting them.

They found the artist in his studio, studying upon the canvas the