east and the west. On the outskirts of the village, in
the edge of the western forest, stood the Roman Catholic chapel,--a low
wooden building, painted red, and having a huge silver cross on the top.

At the moment of Hetty's arrival, a burial service was just about
to take place in this little chapel, and the procession was slowly
approaching: the priest walking in front, lifting up a high gilt
crucifix; a little white-robed acolyte carrying holy water in a silver
basin; a few Sisters of Charity with their long black gowns and flapping
white bonnets; behind these the weeping villagers, bearing the coffin on
a rude sort of litter. As Hetty saw this procession, she was seized with
an irresistible desire to join it. She was the only passenger in the
diligence, and the door was locked. She called to the driver, and at
last succeeded in making him hear, and also understand that she wished
to be set down immediately: she would walk on to the inn. She wished
first to go into the church. The driver was a good Catholic; very
seriously he said: "It is bad luck to say one's prayers while there is
going on the mass for the dead; there is another chapel which Madame
would find less sad at this hour. It is only a short distance farther
on."

But Hetty reiterated her request; and the driver, shrugging his
shoulders, and saying in an altered tone:

"As Madame pleases; it is all the same to me: nevertheless, it is bad
luck;" assisted her to alight.

The procession had just entered the church. Dim lights twinkled on the
altar, and a smell of incense filled the place. Hetty fell on her knees
with the rest, and prayed for those she had left behind her. Her prayer
was simple and short, repeated many times: "Oh God, make them happy!
make them happy!" When the mass was over, Hetty waited near the door,
and watched anxiously to see if the priest were the same whom her father
had known so well twenty years before. Yes, it was--no--could this be
Father Antoine? This fat, red-faced, jovial-looking old man? Father
Antoine had been young, slender and fair; but there was no mistaking the
calm and serious hazel eyes. It was Father Antoine, but how changed!

"If I have changed as much as that," thought Hetty, "he'll never believe
I am I; and I dare say I have. Dear me, what a frightful thing is this
old age!"

Hetty had resolved, in the outset, that she would take Father Antoine
into her confidence. She knew the sacredness of secrecy in which R