A Lover in Homespun | Page 9

the great birch he stopped and peered in at the
bench, where the shadows were deep: Zotique was there. Vital sat
down by his side, and laying his hand on his brother's shoulder, said in
a low voice, "You--cared--a great deal, Zotique?"
"A great deal, Vital." There was no reproach in the tone.
"Zotique--I don't know what to say--I never was, as you know, a very
good hand at saying things. It was hard to think of you being here all
alone. I--I--want you to know, Zotique, that I have not tried to act
underhanded. It all happened between us so suddenly, and so--so--"
"Yes, I understand; don't worry about it, Vital," he interrupted,--in a
tone which eased Vital's heart more than any words could have done.
They sat ever so long without speaking. Finally Zotique said quietly,
"My coming back was all a mistake, Vital; I never thought you cared
for her in that way; you were always so quiet and absent-minded that I
misunderstood you." He paused for a few moments and then went on
unevenly: "After I get back--perhaps not just at once--I will write and
tell her how fortunate she is."
* * * * *

The Faith that Removes Mountains.
Just as the bells in the great towers of old Notre Dame Church, in
Montreal, were striking the hour of ten, a gust of October wind, more
fierce than its fellows, bore down upon the trees in the French Square
fronting the church, tore from them multitudes of leaves, brown and
crisp and dry, drove them past the ancient church, along Notre Dame
Street, across the Champ de Mars to St. Dominique Street, and heaped
them sportively in the doorway of a quaint French-Canadian cottage.

There huddling apprehensively together, the door opened, just as the
wind with renewed vigor beat down upon them once more. For a few
moments a weird, bent figure, crutch in hand, stood in the doorway
gasping for breath, her claw-like hands brushing away the leaves,
which clung to her as if affrighted. The weight of years bore upon her
so heavily that she scarcely had strength to close the door in the face of
the riotous storm. As she stood panting and wheezing in the little parlor,
into which the street door opened, she made a remarkable picture. She
was clad in a dark, ill-fitting dress, fastened around the waist by a broad
strip of faded yellow ribbon; about her neck the parchment-like skin
hung in heavy folds, while her entire face was seamed over and over
with deep wrinkles, giving it a marvellously aged appearance.
At length her strength returned, and she muttered as she hobbled across
the room: "The storm is worse; I fear she cannot go out to-night."
Reaching an ancient door, from which the paint had faded years before,
she turned the handle, when a strange sight was revealed. Kneeling
before a plaster cast of the Virgin, with a string of bone prayer-beads in
her hands, was another aged woman. Ranged on either side of the
statue were two colored wax candles, lighting up the face of the devout
worshipper, whose hair the years had bleached white as snow. She was
twenty years younger than her crippled sister, who had defied death for
nearly a hundred years.
On seeing the image and the worshipper, the sister in the doorway
painfully fell upon her knees, clasped her hands, and also began to pray.
Finally they both rose. Putting aside her beads, the younger
sister--whom the neighbors called "Little Mother Soulard"--took up an
ancient-looking bonnet, which she proceeded to fasten by two immense
strings under her chin. She was short in stature and inclined to be stout;
her face, though heavily lined, was still pleasing to look at. "Is it
storming as badly as ever, Delmia?" she asked, turning to her sister,
who stood watching her putting on her things with a dissatisfied
countenance.
"The storm is worse than ever," Delmia answered peevishly. "Do not
go out to-night. You, too, are old, and it is a long way to the

Bonsecours Church. I fear the storm will be too much for you."
"But think, dear," replied her sister, commiseratingly, "how our poor
nephew will be thinking of us in that dreadful place, and think, too, of
her who was this day to have been his wife. They both sorely need my
prayers this night. I must--I must go, Delmia."
"But," contended Delmia, persistently, bringing her crutch sharply
down on the floor, "why not pray here" (turning and looking at the
statue) "to the Virgin, instead of going out this fearful night to pray to
her in the church?"
The Little Mother let the shawl she was drawing around her shoulders
fall to the floor, as she heard the question,