the dampness before she tried her new room. By much persuasion,
however, she was induced to postpone her removal from day to day; and
finally, as she grew weaker and weaker, she decided to abandon that
plan, and journey to New York while she could. In two weeks more she
had left us forever.


_June 1_.

Our first Sunday at Chappaqua. We have a little church for a next-door
neighbor, in which services of different sects are held on alternate
Sundays, the pulpit being hospitably open to all denominations
excepting Papists. Three members of our little household,
however--mamma, Marguerite, and I--belong to the grand old Church of
Rome; so the carriage was ordered, and with our brother in religion,
Bernard, the coachman, for a pioneer, we started to find a church or
chapel of the Latin faith. At Mount Kisco, a little town four miles
distant, Bernard thought we might hear Mass, "but then it's not the
sort of church you ladies are used to," he added, apologetically; "it's
a small chapel, and only rough working people go there."

I was quite amused at the idea that the presence of poor people was any
objection, for is it not a source of pride to Catholics that _their_
church is open alike to the humblest and richest; so with a suggestive
word from Bernard, Gabrielle's spirited ponies flew

"Over the hills, and far away."