The impertinent words made her blood boil, and she would have longed to strike him on the mouth; but what good would that have done? She had to pocket her affronts, till the right time should come. Otherwise, the man would leave, and all would be thrown on her hands. She could hardly manage to pull through as it was, and her health was breaking down under the strain. “Steel is devoured by rust, and rocks last but for a season”; how, then, could a feeble woman hold out for ever? One day—May was then drawing to an end—the priest had driven off with the organist to a local festival. Ambrose had been drinking so deep with the Germans (who now looked frequently in at the tavern) that he was not there to toll the evening Angelus, nor to open the church-door for the May service! It was therefore decided to have the service in the burying-ground, where, close to the lich-gate, there stood a little shrine containing a statue of the Mother of God. Every May, the girls adorned it with paper ribbons and a gilt crown, and cast wild flowers all around, doing likewise all they could to preserve it from complete ruin. It was of great antiquity, and so cracked and crumbling and dilapidated that the birds no longer made their nests in it; and if a shepherd-boy ever took shelter there, it was only during the autumn rains. To some extent it was screened from the winter storms by the churchyard trees, the old lindens, some slender birches, and a few crosses which stood near, leaning out of the perpendicular. A good many people had assembled, and quickly decked the shrine with flowers and verdure; and, having placed a taper and some small lamps at the feet of the statue, they knelt down piously. The blacksmith bent in front before the threshold, sprinkled with tulips and eglantine blossoms; and he struck up a hymn. It was then much after sunset, and growing dark; but the sky was still burning and golden in the West, with pale emerald higher up. All was very still; the long locks of the birches streamed down in cascades, and the corn stooped down, as though listening to the shrill quavering of the crickets. The herds were wending their way home; and from field and village and pathways now unseen, there floated the graziers’ noisy songs, mingled with long melancholy lowings. And the people looked into their Mother’s face, and lifted up their voices, while she stretched her hands out in benediction over the world. “Good night, O Lily white! Good night!”