some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed
quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral
slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in
the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy
darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the
prelate's upturned toes.

"Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had
darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into
the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that
is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!"

The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these
dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his
bruises, and told him not to be superstitious.

"Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby
hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a
church?"

The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old
Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar.
Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her
prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which
mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone
and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering
with agitation, he walked away.

"You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more
than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I