g to be done. However, when we talked it over, I understood quite
well. To begin with, all priests are forbidden to read the burial
service over any one who has not been baptized, therefore he had no
choice. And this man was not only an unbeliever, but a mocker of all
religion. When his last child was born he had friends over, from some of
the neighbouring villages, who were Freemasons (they are a very bad lot
in France); they had a great feast and baptized the child in red wine. I
rather regretted the black frock I sent the mother, but she looked so
utterly wretched and perhaps she could not help herself.

The little cure is very pleased to have his midnight mass this year on
Christmas eve. Last year it was suppressed. There was such angry feeling
and hostility to the clergy that the authorities were afraid there might
be scenes and noisy protestations in the churches; perhaps in some
quarters of the big cities, but certainly not in the country where
people hold very much to the midnight mass. It is also one of the
services that most people attend. It is always a pretty sight in the
country, particularly if there happens to be snow on the ground. Every
one that can walk comes. One sees the little bands arriving across the
fields and along the canal--five or six together, with a lantern.
Entire families turn out--the old grandfathers hobbling along on their
sticks, the women carrying their babies, who are generally very
good--quite taken up with the lights and music, or else asleep. We
always sing Adam's "Noel." In almost every church in France, I think,
they sing it. Even in the big Paris churches like the Madeleine and St.
Eustache, where they have orchestras and trained choirs, they always
sing the "Noel" at some period of the service.

MAREUIL, le 24 Mai.

To-day was the Premiere Communion at La Ferte, and I had promised the
Abbe Devigne to go. I couldn't have the auto, as Francis was at a
meeting of a Syndicat Agricole in quite another direction. So I took the
train (about seven minutes), and I really believe I had the whole train
to myself. No one travels in France, on Sunday, in the middle of the
day. It is quite a long walk from the station to the church (the service
was at Notre Dame, the church on the hill), with rather a steep climb at
the end. The little town looked quite deserted--a few women standing at
their doors and in all directions white figures of all ages were
galloping up the hill. The bells we