Although the hour was late, several French-Canadian women were in the
church, crouched at the feet of the marble statue of the Virgin, near
the gorgeous altar. As the church door complainingly opened and
disclosed the wet, weary figure of little Mother Soulard, the
worshippers, with that lack of curiosity so characteristic of
French-Canadian women when in church, did not look up, nor even appear
to notice her as she crowded past them, and also knelt before the
statue that had given such wonderful answers to prayer. Devoutly she
kissed the Virgin's feet.

One by one, the seekers after health and happiness stole away, and
presently the Little Mother was all alone. Soon the only sounds that
broke the intense silence were her loudly whispered supplications and
the clicking of her prayer-beads, which waked weird echoes in the
great galleries and organ loft.

Now it was Ovide, and anon Marie; over and over, again she poured out
her heart for them. If the dear Mother would but put it into the
hearts of the men who had sent Ovide, her nephew, from her--whom she
loved as a son--to give him his liberty! She was sure he had never
forged the note; it was cruel of them to have him kept in such an
unhappy, disgraceful place. Even if he had fallen, might they not have
shown him mercy? Better than anyone else the Blessed Virgin knew, that
everyone needed mercy more than justice! Thus she pleaded, and in the
innocence of her own simple mind she condoned the evil the loved one
had done.

As she continued to pray, her religious enthusiasm increased, until,
at last, raising her bowed head, and looking up into the immobile
face, carved in pitying lines, she cried despairfully: "Dear Mother,