of one of the Fates
reviewing her flax before she commenced the spinning of some new web of
destiny.

"Good morning to you, sister!" said Jocunda. "I heard you were off
tomorrow, and I came to see what I could do to help you."

"There's nothing to be done for me, but to kill me," said Elsie. "I am
weary of living."

"Oh, never say that! Shake the dice again, my old man used to say,--God
rest his soul! Please Saint Agnes, you'll have a brave pilgrimage."

"Saint Agnes be hanged!" said Elsie, gruffly. "I'm out with her. It was
she put all these notions into my girl's head. Because she didn't get
married herself, she don't want any one else to. She has no
consideration. I've done with her: I told her so this morning. The
candles I've burned and the prayers I've gone through with, that she
might prosper me in this one thing! and it's all gone against me. She's
a baggage, and shall never see another penny of mine,--that's flat!"

Such vituperation of saints and sacred images may be heard to this day
in Italy, and is a common feature of idol-worship in all lands; for,
however the invocation of the saints could be vitalized in the hearts of
the few spiritual, there is no doubt that in the mass of the common
people it had all the well-defined symptoms of the grossest idolatry,
among which fits of passionate irreverence are one. That feeling, which
tempts the enlightened Christian in sore disappointment and vexation to
rise in rebellion against a wise Providence, in the childish twilight of
uncultured natures finds its full expression unawed by reverence or
fear.

"Oh, hush, now!" said Jocunda. "What is the use of making her angry just
as you are going to Rome, where she has the most power? All sorts of ill
luck will befall you. Make up with her before you start, or you may get
the fever in the marshes and die, and then who will take care of poor
Agnes?"

"Let Saint Agnes look after her; the girl loves her better than she does
me or anybody else," said Elsie. "If she cared anything about me, she'd
marry and settle down, as I want her to."

"Oh, there you are wrong," said Jocunda. "Marrying is like your dinner:
one is not always in stomach for it, and one's meat is another's poison.
Now who knows but this pilgrimage may be the very thing to bring the
girl round? I've seen people cured of too much religion by going to
Rome. You know things a'n't there as our little saint fancies. Why,
between you and me, the priests them