h
the sins of the world are so heavy!"

Madame Bavoil smiled.

"A very old Carmelite nun," said she, "who had gone into this House
before railways were invented, died here hardly three months ago. She
had never been outside the walls, and never saw an engine or a railway
carriage. Under what form could she picture to herself the trains she
heard thundering and shrieking?"

"As some diabolical invention, no doubt, since these conveyances carry
us to the wicked but delightful sins of towns," replied Durtal, smiling.
"But it is a curious case, nevertheless."

He was silent; then, changing the subject, he said,--

"And do you still hold communion with Heaven, Madame Bavoil?"

"No," she answered, sadly. "I no longer have any converse or any
visions. I am deaf and blind. God is silent to me."

She shook her head, and, after a pause, she added, speaking to
herself,--

"Such a little thing is enough to displease Him. If He detects a trace
of vanity in the soul on which He shines, He departs. And as the Father
tells me, the mere fact of having spoken of the special graces
vouchsafed to me by Jesus, proves that I am not humble. In short, His
will be done!--And you, our friend, do you still think of taking shelter
in a cloister?"

"I--my spirit still craves a truce; my soul is but shifting ballast."

"Because, no doubt, you are not honest in your dealings. You behave as
if you meant to strike a bargain with Him; that is not the way to set to
work."

"What would you do in my place?"

"I should be generous; I should say to Him, 'Here I am, do with me as
Thou wilt. I give myself unconditionally to Thee. I ask but one thing:
Help me to love Thee.'"

"And do you suppose that I have not blamed myself for my cowardice of
heart?"

They walked on in silence. When they reached the cathedral, Madame
Bavoil proposed that they should pay a visit to Notre Dame du Pilier.

They seated themselves in the gloom of the side aisle of the choir,
where the dark-toned windows were still further obscured by a poorly
executed wooden niche, in which the Virgin, as dark as her namesake in
the crypt, Notre Dame de Sous-Terre, stood on a pillar, hung round with
bunches of metal hearts and little lamps on coronas, from the roof.
Frames of tapers on each side shot up little tongues of flame, and
prostrate women were praying, their faces hidden in their hands or
upturned to the dark countenance, on which the light did not fall.

It struck D