Then the pretty Evangeline in turn becomes instructor, the theme being an ancient peasant song of France which her grandmother used to sing. One plays the melody from memory, while the other hastily rules a bit of paper and writes off the notes, afterwards copying the words from a scrap of tattered manuscript; and thus the lady from "America" feels that she has secured a pretty souvenir of the visit: LES PERLES ET LES ÉTOILES. 1. Comme les perles et les é - tol – les Or-nent dé - ja le front des cleux La nuit e-tend partout votle Elle vient de ju fermer mes yeux, Re - viendras tu dans un doux songe, O mon bel ange, tor que j'adore Me re - pe - ter divers mensonges Me re - pe - ter -ye taime encore-- 2. Sur un soup-çon tu t'es en—fuie Je pleure bélas ton a - ban – don Par un bais er je t'en supplie Viens m’accorder undous pardon Oh crois le bien ma bonne a se Pour te revoir oh om, un jor, Je donnerais toute ma vie Je donnerais tous mes amours The word "_mensonges_" has not the meaning in French which our literal translation would give it. It probably signifies the pretty falsehoods or white lies to which lovers are somewhat addicted. The next day is Sunday, and troops of people, in their peculiar costume, appear on the road from all directions, wending their way to the great white wooden church. Despite the innate grace of the French, of which we hear so much, we see that the young men among these peasants are not unlike the shy and awkward country lads of Yankee land. Before and between the services they roost on the fence opposite the church, while the young girls--totally oblivious of their proximity, of course--gather in groups on the other side of the road, gossiping. We infer that many have come a long distance to attend service, as we see several families eating their lunch, picnic fashion, in the fields near the church. In the church, what a sensation the strangers make, and how interesting is the service! To one of us, at least, the grand service of Notre Dame of Paris was not so impressive as this. In the one case, a famous Bishop, robed in priceless lace and cloth of gold, with a troop of acolytes at the altar, while the most famous singers of the Opera filled the vast structure with rapturous melody; in the other, a large plain wooden building with glaring windows of untinted glass; the priest in vestments of coarse Nottingham lace and yellow damask,--but with spiritual, benignant countenance,--and a choir of untrained voices. A company of men droned out Gregorian chants in painfully nasal tones, using antique books with square headed notes; then the sweet voice of our host's daughter, Evangeline, sounded solo, and her youthful companions in the choir took up the chorus of the Kyrie Eleison:--