altar, then hide their faces with their gloved hands.

For a very few minutes they gracefully deprecate themselves in the eyes
of the Lord, then, taking their seats, coquettishly arrange the immense
bows of their bonnet-strings, scan the assembly through a gold eyeglass,
with the little finger turning up; finally, while smoothing down the
satin folds of a dress difficult to keep in place, they scatter, right
and left, charming little recognitions and delightful little smiles.

"Are you comfortable, dear?"

"Quite, thanks. Do you see in front there, between the two tapers,
Louise and Madame de C-------? Is it allowable in any one to come to
church got up like that?"

"Oh! I have never believed much in the piety of Madame de C-------.
You know her history--the story of the screen? I will tell it you later.
Ah! there is the verger."

The verger shows his bald head in the pulpit of truth. He arranges the
seat, adjusts the kneeling-stool, then withdraws and allows the Abbe
Gelon, who is somewhat pale from Lenten fasting, but striking, as he
always is, in dignity, elegance, and unction. A momentary flutter passes
through the congregation, then they settle down comfortably. The noise
dies away, and all eyes are eagerly looking toward the face of the
preacher. With his eyes turned to heaven, the latter stands upright and
motionless; a light from above may be divined in his inspired look;
his beautiful, white hands, encircled at the wrists by fine lace, are
carelessly placed on the red velvet cushion of the pulpit. He waits a
few moments, coughs twice, unfolds his handkerchief, deposits his square