This morning our church looked quite different--no more banners, embroideries or bright flowers, all draped in black and a bier covered with a black pall in the middle of the aisle--the curé in a black satin vestment; all the congregation in black. I went out before the end of the service. All the black draperies and the black kneeling figures and the funeral psalms were so inexpressibly sad and dreary. I was glad to get out into the sunshine and to the top of the hill, where the cemetery gates stood wide open and the sun was streaming down on all the green graves with their fresh flowers and plants. Soon we heard the sound of the chaunt, and the procession wound slowly up the steep, straggling village street. A banner and cross carried by the boys and girls--then the curé, with his "ostensoir," followed by his "enfants de choeur" carrying books and tapers, then the congregation. There were a great many people already in the cemetery. The little procession halted at the foot of the cross in the middle. There were several prayers and psalms, and then the curé made the tour of the cemetery, sprinkling all the graves with holy water and saying a short prayer at each. The procession broke up into groups, all kneeling at the different graves praying for their dead. There were not many men; a few old ones. They were not kneeling, but stood reverently, with bowed heads, when the curé passed. It was a pretty sight--the kneeling figures, the flower-covered graves, the little procession winding in and out among the tombstones, the white soutanes of the boys shining in the sun and not a sound except the droning of the chaunts. As it was fête--one of the great religious fêtes of the year--there was no work going on--no labourers in the fields, no carts on the road--nothing but the great stillness of the plains. We had our curé at dinner. We were quite sure no one else would ask him and it seemed a shame to leave him in his empty "presbytère" on a fête day. I think his evenings with us are the only bright spots in his life just now. The situation of the priests is really wretched and their future most uncertain. This government has taken away the very small stipend they allowed them. Our curé got his house and nine hundred francs a year--not quite two hundred dollars. In many cases they have refused to let the priests live in their "presbytères" unless they pay rent. The churches are still open. They can have their services if they like, but those who have no fortune (which is the case with most of them) are entirely dependent upon the voluntary contribution of their parishioners.