earted run.

The tale of these miracles, which were repeated day after day, sometimes
being produced even before the pilgrim had reached Chartres, has been
preserved in the Latin manuscript in the Vatican.

The natives of Chateau Landon are dragging a cart-load of wheat. On
reaching Chantereine they discover that the food they had taken for the
journey is all gone, and they beg for bread from some unhappy creatures
who are themselves in the greatest want. The Virgin intercedes for them
and the bread of the poor is multiplied. Again, some men set out from
the Gatinais with a load of stone. Ready to drop, they pause near Le
Puiset, and some villagers coming out to meet them, invite them to rest
while they themselves take a turn at the load; but this they refuse.
Then the natives of Le Puiset offer them a cask of wine, and pour it
into a barrel hoisted on to the truck. This the pilgrims accept, and,
feeling less weary, they go on their way. But they are called back to
see that the empty vat has refilled itself with excellent wine. Of this
all drink, and it heals the sick.

Again, a man of Corbeville-sur-Eure employed in loading a cart with
timber has three fingers chopped across by an axe and shrieks in agony.
His comrades advise him to have the fingers completely severed, as they
hold only by a strip of flesh, but the priest who is conducting them to
Chartres disapproves. They all pray to Mary, and the wound vanishes, the
hand is whole as before.

Some men of Brittany have lost their way at night in the open country,
and are suddenly guided aright by flames of fire; it is the Virgin in
person descending that Saturday after Complines into Her church when it
is almost finished, and filling it with dazzling glory.

And there are pages and pages of such incidents.

"Ah, it is easy to understand," thought Durtal, "why this Sanctuary is
so full of Her. Her gratitude for the love of our forefathers is still
felt here--even now She is fain not to seem too much disgusted, not to
look too closely.

"Well, well! we build sanctuaries in another way nowadays. When I think
of the Sacred Heart in Paris, that gloomy, ponderous erection raised by
men who have written their names in red on every stone! How can God
consent to dwell in a church of which the walls are blocks of vanity
joined by a cement of pride; walls where you may read the names of
well-known tradesmen exhibited in a good place, as if they were an
advertisement? It