until relieved by Simon. Over this flintstone every year the people
come by thousands, and crawl on their naked knees or walk on their
naked feet. Every stone is stained with blood; stumbling, cruelly
hurt, bleeding, they go "The Way of the Cross," and I have no doubt but
that they go back to their homes better men and women for having done
so.

The day that we went to "Calvaire" it was a fitful June afternoon. As
we walked along "The Way of the Cross," across the field, past the
living, almost breathing, statues of the Master bearing his cruel
cross, past the sneering figures of those who hated him, and past the
weeping figures of those who loved and would aid him, and as we came to
the hill itself, suddenly black clouds gathered behind it and rain
began to pour.

"I am glad the clouds are there back of Calvary. I am glad it is
raining as we climb the hill of Calvary. I am willing to be soaked.
It seems more fitting so, with the black clouds there and all. It
reminds me of 'The Return from Calvary' in the painting," one of the
party said impressively.

Up the winding hill we climbed, and there gaunt and cruel against a
sombre sky stood the three crosses, just as we have always imagined
them. The hill was so high that it overlooked as beautiful a valley as
I had seen in all France. It was in Brittany, as yet untouched by the
war as far as its fields are concerned (not so its men and its women
and its homes); but on that spring day as we looked down from the hill
of Calvary we could see off in the distance the tomb, with the stone
rolled away, and life-size angels standing there with uplifted wings.
Then farther along the road, perhaps another quarter mile away, on