when they understood, from her grief, what relation the quiet forms
bore to her, and heard snatches of their pitiful history fall,
incoherently, from her lips, they drew back, and let her pour out her
deep grief over them. With sympathizing hearts, at length they made a
sign, and the convicts took up the bodies and bore them into the
courtyard.

The Little Mother seemed too stunned to notice what they had done, and
still sat sobbing and talking to herself.

The driver grew weary of waiting, and going to her side said softly,
as he laid his hand on her shoulder: "Let me take you home; it is
cold, and you are shivering."

She only crouched closer to the spot where they had lain, and talked
on. Thinking she was speaking to him, the man bent his head to listen.
"It is all my fault," he heard her say, "because I had not the
faith--not the right faith--not the faith that Father Benoit
meant--the faith that can remove mountains!"

* * * * *




A Pair of Boots.