shoes.

On reaching the opposite side of the road, where the shadows were
deep, Marie paused and looked back at the little house which she had
so suspiciously left. Finding that she was not being pursued, she
turned, regardless of the storm, and began to walk toward the east,
where lay, some six miles distant, the great penitentiary of St.
Vincent de Paul. As she sped along in the shadow of the houses, she
began to talk to herself like a pleased child. "This is our
wedding-day, and he will be so glad to see me," she chattered.

Suddenly the smile died out of her face, and she said anxiously: "But
how shall I know him, now that they have changed his name?" She wrung
her hands distressfully. Soon the smile returned to her round, sweet
face, and she went on: "But he cannot have forgotten that this is our
wedding-day, and when he sees me, he is sure to know me."

* * * * *

If tender-hearted little Mother Soulard had only known as she
struggled across the Champ de Mars, muttering prayers for Marie and
her nephew Ovide, her strength must surely have failed her. She was so
weak and worn that she fairly staggered across the Notre Dame and down
Bonsecours Street; but her strength revived and her heart grew light
again, as she saw in the near distance the famed Bonsecours Church,
bearing on its lofty roof the great statue of the Blessed Virgin,
which, with arms outstretched toward the River St. Lawrence, welcomes
to port those whose business it is to imperil their lives in deep
waters.