to carry off
the dampness before she tried her new room. By much persuasion,
however, she was induced to postpone her removal from day to day; and
finally, as she grew weaker and weaker, she decided to abandon that
plan, and journey to New York while she could. In two weeks more she
had left us forever.

_June 1_.

Our first Sunday at Chappaqua. We have a little church for a next-door
neighbor, in which services of different sects are held on alternate
Sundays, the pulpit being hospitably open to all denominations
excepting Papists. Three members of our little household,
however--mamma, Marguerite, and I--belong to the grand old Church of
Rome; so the carriage was ordered, and with our brother in religion,
Bernard, the coachman, for a pioneer, we started to find a church or
chapel of the Latin faith. At Mount Kisco, a little town four miles
distant, Bernard thought we might hear Mass, "but then it's not the
sort of church you ladies are used to," he added, apologetically; "it's
a small chapel, and only rough working people go there."

I was quite amused at the idea that the presence of poor people was any
objection, for is it not a source of pride to Catholics that _their_
church is open alike to the humblest and richest; so with a suggestive
word from Bernard, Gabrielle's spirited ponies flew

"Over the hills, and far away."

A perpetual ascent and descent it seemed--a dusty road, for we are
sadly in want of rain, and few shade-trees border the road; but once in
Mount Kisco, the novelty of the little chapel quite compensated for the
disagreeable features of our journey there. A tiny chapel indeed--a
plain frame building, with no pretence to architectural beauty. It was
intended originally, I thought, for a Protestant meeting-house, as the
cruciform shape, so conspicuous in all Catholic-built churches was
wanting here. The whitewashed walls were hung with small, rude
pictures, representing the _Via Crucis_ or Stations of the Cross, and
the altar-piece--not, I fancy, a remarkable work of art in its
prime--had become so darkened by smoke, that I only _conjectured_ its
subject to be St. Francis in prayer.

Although it was Whit-Sunday the altar was quite innocent of ornament,
having only six candles, and a floral display of two bouquets. The
seats and kneeling-benches were uncushioned, and the congregation was
composed, as Bernard said, entirely of the working class; but the
people were very clean a