ing a great deal to do.

"Mamma," resumed Jeanne with a child's wonted stubbornness, "she is
looking at you; she is nodding good-day to you."

At this intimation Helene was forced to turn round and exchange
greetings; each bowed to the other. Madame Deberle, in a striped silk
gown trimmed with white lace, sat in the centre of the nave but a
short distance from the choir, looking very fresh and conspicuous. She
had brought her sister Pauline, who was now busy waving her hand. The
chanting still continued, the elder members of the congregation
pouring forth a volume of sound of falling scale, while now and then
the shrill voice of the children punctuated the slow, monotonous
rhythm of the canticle.

"They want us to go over to them, you see," exclaimed Jeanne, with
some triumph in her remark.

"It is useless; we shall be all right here."

"Oh, mamma, do let us go over to them! There are two chairs empty."

"No, no; come and sit down."

However, the ladies smilingly persisted in making signs, heedless to
the last degree of the slight scandal they were causing; nay,
delighted at being the observed of all observers. Helene thus had to
yield. She pushed the gratified Jeanne before her, and strove to make
her way through the congregation, her hands all the while trembling
with repressed anger. It was no easy business. Devout female
worshippers, unwilling to disturb themselves, glared at her with
furious looks, whilst all agape they kept on singing. She pressed on
in this style for five long minutes, the tempest of voices ringing
around her with ever-increasing violence. Whenever she came to a
standstill, Jeanne, squeezing close beside her, gazed at those
cavernous, gaping mouths. However, at last they reached the vacant
space in front of the choir, and then had but a few steps to make.

"Come, be quick," whispered Madame Deberle. "The Abbe told me you
would be coming, and I kept two chairs for you."

Helene thanked her, and, to cut the conversation short, at once began
turning over the leaves of her missal. But Juliette was as worldly
here as elsewhere; as much at her ease, as agreeable and talkative, as
in her drawing-room. She bent her head towards Helene and resumed:

"You have become quite invisible. I intended to pay you a visit
to-morrow. Surely you haven't been ill, have you?"

"No, thank you. I've been very busy."

"Well, listen to me. You must come and dine with us to-morrow. Quite a
family dinner, you