Thin and quavering through the expectant hush came the chords of a harmonium. Rustlings and whisperings among the closely packed people as the misty white figure advanced slowly into sight. At the altar the silver-haired bishop turned his scholarly face upon her, full of tenderness; and when he spoke, his voice seemed an assurance of peace and purity. The service was long. In France one listens to a sermon when one is married, and the pretty bridesmaids came round for three collections. The bishop talked of her father, his friend, who had died under cruel circumstances. Shoulders heaved in the congregation, and in a dark corner a sob was stifled. "You have suffered, my children. There has been a mighty mowing and a winter of death, and our mother the earth has lain barren. But today stand up, O children, and listen and feel. We are united in these ruins by more than sorrow. What are these pulsations that beat this day upon our soul?" The words flowed on following the ancient grooves of sermons, but the loving voice thrilled us. It floated through the dim atmosphere into our consciousness, holding us as in a dream, dovelike and soothing. My eyes trailed to the delicate bride kneeling beside a great cracked column, and I thought of the tiny blossom again by the road, and of those stretches without the town, no longer gray, but brushed with new color. I saw the daisies and the grasses waving out on No Man's Land: like heralding banners of the triumph march they waved, leading out of sight beyond the horizon. And as the priest talked, my heart throbbed its own silent canticle: "Joy in the new dawned day, and in peace-awakened fields. Hope of the flower that blooms again. Faith in the unfolding of petals, gently, forever, and in season." "_Soyez loué, Seigneur!_" the voice deepened and concluded. Decisively, now, burst forth the reedlike chords of music. A wave of movement throughout the crowd. And the bowed form trembled a moment within its sheathing veil, against the cold stone pillar. LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire? She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect, this story would be more amusing. We came upon her in the course of our visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended. She was delighted to have someone to talk to. "Come in, my good girl," she patronized the queenly and aristocratic Madame de Vigny. "Come in, everybody," and we all went in. "Sit down, my dear," again to Madame de Vigny. "Those barbarians didn't leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these young ladies." She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite of her eighty years. Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth, displaying two teeth. She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.