Hope of the
flower that blooms again. Faith in the unfolding of petals, gently,
forever, and in season."
"_Soyez loue, 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.
"_Dites, Madame_," she said, "is it true that you give away flannel
petticoats and stockings?"
"Yes, Madame, when one has need of them."
"Is it possible? And for nothing? Ah, that is good, that is generous.
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