Madame Guibert had chosen a dark corner, a little to one side, and was absorbed in her meditations. Her black dress and the widow’s veil that she still wore made her hardly distinguishable from the shadows. She ran over in memory the last days of her life and without difficulty found in them reason to bless and to thank her God. Had He not granted her what she had so long prayed for, in her own misery--the happiness of her daughter? Paule, her little Paule, not only the best beloved of all her children, but the most loving, and the support of her sad old age--how often had she called down divine blessings upon her, whom the family sorrows had most intimately touched. Doubtless in bestowing them, God would tear her heart. But since this was the necessary price, how could she have the cowardice to murmur against His beneficent Will or to hate the loneliness which was coming upon her that night? “No, no,” she said in her prayer. “I will not pity myself, as we are so often tempted to do to excuse our weakness. My God, Thou wilt aid me in my need. I will be firm to-night. They shall not see me cry. I could not go with them. Thou hast warned me of my failing strength, and my work is done. My children will carry it on better than I could. I thank Thee for having in Thy goodness allowed me to see my daughter’s happiness. I entrust her to Thy protection during this long journey with her husband who has become my son.” All shaken with emotion she added: “I entrust to Thee, my God, yet another life, dark and uncertain, that of a little babe still to come, whom my hands will never receive in this world. Grant him health, intelligence, a firm spirit, and submission to Thy holy law. Grant him a long life in order that he may be able to serve Thee better. May he be strong and brave in well-doing, may he fear neither laughter nor tears, may he love work, and may he be to his mother what she has been to me.” Some time before the happy Paule had told her of her dearest hope, which was confirmed as time went on. Her marriage was already blest. A new source of love and devotion had welled up in her. When Madame Guibert lifted her head which she had hidden in her hands, she noticed that the priest was leaving the altar and she reproached herself. “I have not heard Mass.” But she immediately felt reassured, for in her prayer she had found the peace she sought. From here, from there, from chair and bench, one by one the congregation rose and went to the door. They were going to their daily work with quiet hearts and bodies prepared. In her turn Madame Guibert left the church. Outside day was scarcely breaking over the snow on the roofs and streets--that sad winter’s day which would see her come back from the station alone. She turned the key in the lock and on tip-toe crossed the passage full of trunks to go to the kitchen noiselessly. Old Marie was already preparing breakfast. “Monsieur has just gone out to engage the omnibus,” she explained.