an obese and aged archbishop, habited in cambric and lace, looking strangely like a gray daw in bird-of- paradise plumage, and a band of young girls fantastically robed and garlanded—then I spoke my mind to M. Paul.

“I did not like it,” I told him; “I did not respect such ceremonies; I wished to see no more.”

And having relieved my conscience by this declaration, I was able to go on, and, speaking more currently and clearly than my wont, to show him that I had a mind to keep to my reformed creed; the more I saw of Popery the closer I clung to Protestantism. Doubtless there were errors in every church, but I now perceived by contrast how severely pure was my own compared with her whose painted and meretricious face had been unveiled for my admiration. I told him how we kept fewer forms between us and God, retaining, indeed, no more than, perhaps, the nature of mankind in the mass rendered necessary for due observance. I told him I could not look on flowers and tinsel, on wax lights and embroidery, at such times and under such circumstances as should be devoted to lifting the secret vision to Him whose home is infinity and His being eternity; that when I thought of sin and sorrow, of earthly corruption, mortal depravity, weighty temporal woe, I could not care for chanting priests or mumming officials; that when the pains of existence and the terrors of dissolution pressed before me, when the mighty hope and measureless doubt of the future arose in view, then even the scientific strain, or the prayer in a language learned and dead, harassed with hindrance a heart which only longed to cry,—

“God be merciful to me, a sinner!”

When I had so spoken, so declared my faith, and so widely severed myself from him I addressed, then at last came a tone accordant, an echo responsive, one sweet chord of harmony in two conflicting spirits.

“Whatever say priests or controversialists,” murmured M. Emanuel, “God is good, and loves all the sincere. Believe, then, what you can; believe it as you can. One prayer, at least, we have in common: I also cry, ‘O Dieu, sois appaisé envers moi qui suis pécheur!’ ”

He leaned on the back of my chair. After some thought he again spoke,—

“How seem in the eyes of that God who made all firmaments, from whose nostrils issued whatever of life is here or in the stars shining yonder—how seem the differences of man? But as time is not for God, nor space, so neither is measure, nor comparison. We abase ourselves in our littleness, and we do right; yet it may be that the constancy of one heart, the truth and faith of one mind according to the light He has appointed, import as much to Him as the just motion of satellites about their planets, of planets about their suns, of suns around that mighty unseen centre incomprehensible, irrealizable, with strange mental effort only divined.

“God guide us all! God bless you, Lucy!”