Mistrusting the woman as I did, I was forced, for the sake of peace, to express approval of her. Barbara clapped her hands, and declared we should be quite a happy family. It was after this interview that Barbara had a religious fit. Twice a day she went to the Madeleine, and spent an hour there upon her knees. Sometimes Annette accompanied her, sometimes I, upon her invitation. I asked her why she, a Protestant, frequented a Catholic place of worship. "What does it matter, the place?" she asked, in return, speaking in a gentle tone. "It does one good to pray. Even to kneel in such a temple without saying a prayer strengthens one's soul. Through the solemn silence, broken now and then by a sob from some poor woman's broken heart, a message comes from God. Women are greatly to be pitied, John." "Men, too, sometimes," I said. "Oh, no," she answered, quickly, "there is no comparison." A trifling incident may be set down here, in connection with the brooch, with its device of two hearts, which I had purchased as a present for Barbara on the first night we were in Paris, and which I afterwards determined not to give her. I was in the sitting-room clearing my pockets. Among the things I had taken out was the brooch, which I had almost forgotten. I was still of the opinion that it would be an unsuitable gift, and I was thinking what to do with it when Annette passed through the sitting-room to the bedroom, her eyes, as usual, lowered to the ground. In the course of the day I went to the jeweler of whom I had purchased the brooch, and he took it back at half the price I had paid for it. I thought no more of the matter. CHAPTER X. I had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through Switzerland and Italy, intending to visit Lucerne, Berne, Interlaken, Chamouni, and Geneva, then on to the Italian lakes, and I was studying the plan I had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the principal towns, when Barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation that she was sick of Paris. This surprised me. We had intended to remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and I had supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so much to Barbara's liking that I should have a difficulty in getting her away from it. For my own part I was glad to leave, glad to travel sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer contact with nature. Barbara had never visited Switzerland or Italy, and I hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those beautiful countries would be beneficial to her, would help her to shake off the fatal habit which she had allowed to grow upon her. "Very well, Barbara," I said, "we will leave for Lucerne to-morrow." "How long does it take to get to Geneva?" she asked. "From Lucerne?" "No, from here." "There is a morning train, which gets there in the evening." "Then we will go to-morrow morning to Geneva."