pitiable than the rest.

The church of Pévy seemed to be clinging to the side of the hill, and
was approached by a narrow stairway of greyish stone, climbing up
between moss-grown walls. I first passed through the modest little
churchyard, with its humble tombs half hidden in the grass, and read
some of the simple inscriptions:

"Here lies ... Here lies ... Pray for him...."

The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden in the turf,
and as I walked up it my boots brushed the drops from the grass. The
damp seemed to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling--a
fine persistent drizzle. Behind me the village was in mist; the roofs
and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable.

Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy door studded
with iron nails, and entered the church, and at once experienced a
feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose. How touching the little
sanctuary of Pévy seemed to me in its humble simplicity!

Imagine a kind of hall with bare walls, the vault supported by two
rows of thick pillars. The narrow Gothic windows hardly allowed the
grey light to enter. There were no horrible cheap modern stained
windows, but a multitude of small white rectangular leaded panes. All
this was simple and worn; but to me it seemed to breathe a noble and
touching poetry. And what charmed me above all was that the pale light
did not reveal walls covered with the horrible colour-wash we are
accustomed to see in most of our village churches.