of a saw.

'If it hadn't been for the little one,' she continued, 'Monsieur le Cure
would have lost all use for his holy water. Old Bambousse had made up
his mind to marry Rosalie to young Laurent, of Figuieres.'

However, the girls' merriment and their chatter now came to an end, for
they saw La Teuse limping furiously towards them. At this the three big
hussies felt alarmed, stepped back, and subsided into sedateness.

'You worthless things!' hissed La Teuse. 'You come to talk a lot of
filth here, do you? Aren't you ashamed of yourself, La Rousse? You ought
to be there, on your knees, before the altar, like Rosalie. I will throw
you outside if you stir again. Do you hear?'

La Rousse's copper cheeks were tinged with a rising blush, and Babet
glanced at her and tittered.

'And you,' continued La Teuse, turning towards Catherine, 'just you
leave that baby alone. You are pinching it on purpose to make it scream.
Don't tell me you are not. Give it to me.'

She took the child, hushed it in her arms for a moment, and then laid
it upon a chair, where it went to sleep, peacefully like a cherub.
The church then subsided into solemn quietness, disturbed only by the
chattering of the sparrows on the rowan tree outside. At the altar,
Vincent had carried the missal to the right again, and Abbe Mouret had
just folded the corporal and slipped it within the burse. He was now
saying the concluding prayers with a solemn earnestness, which neither
the screams of the baby nor the giggling of the three girls had been
able to disturb. He seemed to hear nothing of them, but to be wholly
absorbed in the prayers which he was offering up to Heaven for the
happiness of the pair whose union he had just blessed. The sky that
morning was grey with a hazy heat, which veiled the sun. Through the
broken windows a russet vapour streamed into the church, betokening
a stormy day. Along the walls the gaudily coloured pictures of the
Stations of the Cross displayed their red, blue, and yellow patches;
at the bottom of the nave the dry woodwork of the gallery creaked and
strained; and under the doorway the tall grass by the steps thrust
ripening straw, all alive with little brown grasshoppers. The clock,
in its wooden case, made a whirring noise, as though it were some
consumptive trying to clear his throat, and then huskily struck
half-past six.

'_Ite, missa est_,' said the priest, turning round to the congregation.

'_Deo gratias_,' responded