despairingly extended it toward me as he still fought in the turmoil.
"_Eh, bien!_" cried a stalwart Frenchwoman at my side, who had filled
her bottle and could not extricate herself. "If you will not permit me
to depart, I remain!" The argument was irresistible; the crowd laughed
childishly and let her out.

Now, I regret to say that once more the churches were outlined in fairy
electric lamps, that the metallic garlands round our Mother's statue
blazed with them; that, even worse, the old castle on the hill and the
far away Calvary were also illuminated; and, worst of all, that the
procession concluded with fireworks--rockets and bombs. Miracles in the
afternoon; fireworks in the evening!

Yet the more I think of it, the less am I displeased. When one reflects
that more than half of the enormous crowd came, probably, from tiny
villages in France--where a rocket is as rare as an angelic visitation;
and, on the carnal side, as beautiful in their eyes--it seems a very
narrow-minded thing to object. It is true that you and I connect
fireworks with Mafeking night or Queen Victoria's Jubilee; and that they
seem therefore incongruous when used to celebrate a visitation of God.
But it is not so with these people. For them it is a natural and
beautiful way of telling the glory of Him who is the Dayspring from on
high, who is the Light to lighten the Gentiles, whose Mother is the
_Stella Matutina_, whose people once walked in darkness and now have
seen a great Light. It is their answer--the reflection in the depths of
their sea--to the myriad lights of that heaven which shines over
Lourdes. Therefore let us leave the fireworks in peace.

It was a very moving thing to walk in that procession, with a candle in
one hand and a little paper book in the other, and help to sing the