little twisted mite of humanity with a bent spine, and one useless
leg which hung limply from his body, while he could scarcely hobble
about on the other, even with the aid of a crutch. He had a soft,
pretty, plaintive face of his own, the little Fabien, and very
gentle ways,--but he was sensitively conscious of his misfortune,
and in his own small secret soul he was always praying that he might
die while he was yet a child, and not grow up to be a burden to his
mother. Martine, however, adored him; and it was through her intense
love for this child of hers that she had, in a strange vengeful sort
of mood abandoned God, and flung an open and atheistical defiance in
the face of her confessor, who, missing her at mass, had ventured to
call upon her and seriously reproach her for neglecting the duties
of her religion. Martine had whirled round upon him,--a veritable
storm in petticoats.

"Religion!" she cried--"Oh--he! What good has it done for ME, if you
please! When I said my prayers night and morning, went to mass and
confession, and told my rosary every Mary-Feast, what happened? Was
not my man killed and my child crippled? And then,--(not to lose
faith--) did I not give the saints every chance of behaving
themselves? For my child's sake did I not earn good money and pay it
to the Church in special masses that he might be cured of his
lameness? And Novenas in plenty, and candles in plenty to the
Virgin, and fastings of my own and penitences? And is the child not
as lame as ever? Look at him!--the dear angel!--with never an evil
thought or a wicked way,--and will you try to make me believe there
is a good God, when He will not help a poor little creature like
that, to be happy, though He is prayed to night and morning for it!
No--no! Churches are kept up for priests to make a fat living out
of,--but there is never a God in them that I can see;--and as for