face of
the church over the door and repeated, "Refugium Peccatorum, Consolatrix
Afflictorum, Sancta Maria, Ora Pro Nobis."

I did not look up at first, my attention at the time being directed to a
company of peasants in the neighbouring vineyard, but at the words
"Sancta Maria," I raised my eyes to the face of the church, and, oh my
God, what did I see!

"Ora pro nobis," broke unintentionally from my lips, I clung
convulsively to the arm of the good, old priest, my eyes were riveted
upon the niche above the door, for there looking down on me, her eyes
strangely drooping, her hands folded across her breast, stood the woman
whom day before yesterday I met on the bridge; I say stood the woman,
but it was only a statue carved in gray stone, an image of the Virgin,
such as we see every day in the churches; this, however, was somewhat
different, as it held no infant Christ in its arms, and then the face,
that was not the face which should be given to Mary, the Mother of our
Saviour.

No, the more I see those eyes, which I at first so much admired, the
more I hate their look, but also strange to say, the more I am
fascinated.

In a few moments I had recovered my usual composure enough to assure
Brother Andreas that the cause of my strange behaviour was a sudden
illness to which I was often subject, when tired, but the good man shook
his head sadly and said, "No, my child, you have seen something
supernatural, which has disturbed you; it is well that I am here." With
that, he immediately made the Sign of the Cross and drew me into the
chapel where he made some use of the Holy Water which I did not
understand, nor did I care, for the sudden fright which had stopped my
heart in its beating, now that all was over, sent the blood rushing
through my veins with frightful rapidity making my head ache so terribly
that I thought that I must die.

It was dark, the next I knew, the room was strange to me; A Crucifix
hung on the wall, before which a single, dim oil lamp was burning,
before this was a monk at prayer;--it seemed like a dream to me, it
could not be real.

After awhile I moved, and the monk rose and came to me, showing, in the
flickering light, the fatherly features of Brother Andreas.

"My child," he said, taking my hand in his, "I am happy that you are of
our flock, for I can help you; I know your thoughts; it is well to think
now when all is still. I will not urge you, but Christ is ever seeking
for your soul; co