to begin until she also had received a nod of agreement from
Aunt Patricia. Between the older and younger woman there was a bond of
strong affection. Nevertheless, mingled with Mrs. Burton's love and
respect, there was also a certain humorous appreciation.

Since their arrival in France the Camp Fire girls had been compelled to
spend their evenings in doors. This was unlike their former custom.

Recently, when they had grown weary of talking, perhaps for only a half
hour before bedtime, some one of them had fallen into the habit of
reading aloud to the others.

Apart from the pleasure, Mrs. Burton regarded this as useful education.

Not a great many newspapers and magazines reached the old farm house in
comparison with other days at camp; nevertheless they arrived in
sufficient number both from the United States and Paris to keep one
fairly in touch with world movements. The reading of the French papers
and magazines was of course especially good practice.

Yet, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Burton could seldom be persuaded to be
anything save a listener. After reading or talking the greater part of
the day to her new French friends, she was apt to be worn out by
evening.

Tonight she began to speak in a low voice as if she were tired, yet as
her little audience was so near it did not matter and her voice never
failed in its beautiful quality.

"Rheims

"It was a people's church--stout, plain folk they,
Wanting their own cathedral, not the king's
Nor prelate's, nor great noble's. On the walls,
On porch and arch and doorway--see, the saints
Have the plain people's faces. That sweet Virgin
Was young Marie, who lived around the corner,
And whom the sculptor knew. From time to time
He saw her at her work, or with her babe,
So gay, so dainty, smiling at the child.
That sturdy Peter--Peter of the keys--
He was old Jean, the Breton fisherman,
Who, somehow, made his way here from the coast
And lived here many years, yet kept withal
The look of the great sea and his great nets.
And John there, the beloved, was Etienne,
And good St. James was Francois--brothers they,
And had a small, clean bakeshop, where they sold
Bread, cakes and little pies. Well, so it went!
These were not Italy's saints, nor yet the gods,
Majestic, calm, unmoved, of ancient Greece.
No, they were only townsfolk, common people,
And grace