choir. The Lady Chapel was a fringe-maker's shop. The smithy in the
north transept had descended from father to son. The south transept,
walled up to make a respectable dwelling, showed through its open door
the ghastly marble tomb of a crusader which the thrifty London housewife
had turned into a parlor table. His crossed feet and hands and upward
staring countenance protruded from the midst of knick-knacks.

Light fell through the venerable clerestory on upper arcades. Some of
these were walled shut, but others retained their arched openings into
the church, and formed balconies from which upstairs dwellers could look
down at what was passing below.

Two women leaned out of the Norman arcades, separated only by a pillar,
watching across the nave those little figures seated in front of the
blacksmith's window. An atmosphere of comfort and thrift filled St.
Bat's. It was the abode of labor and humble prosperity, not an asylum of
poverty. Great worthies, indeed, such as John Milton, and nearer our own
day, Washington Irving, did not disdain to live in St. Bartholomew's
close. The two British matrons, therefore, spoke the prejudice of the
better rather than the baser class.

"The little devils!" said one woman.

"They look innocent," remarked the other. "But these French do make my
back crawl!"

"How long are they going to stay in St. Bat's?"

"The two men with the little girl and the servant intend to sail for
America next week. The lad, and the man that brought him in--as