stepdaughter by the magnificence of the chapel. Was it all new,--the
frescoes, the altar with its marble and its gold, the white figure of the
Virgin, which gleamed above the small side-altar to the left? It had the
air of newness and of costliness, an air which struck the eye all the
more sharply because of the contrast between it and the penury, the
starvation, of the great house that held the chapel in its breast.

But while Laura was still wondering at the general impression of rich
beauty, at the Lenten purple of the altar, at the candelabra, and the
perfume, certain figures and colours on the wall close to her seized her,
thrusting the rest aside. On either side of the altar, the walls to right
and left, from the entrance up to the sanctuary, were covered with what
appeared to be recent painting--painting, indeed, that was still in the
act. On either hand, long rows of life-sized saints, men and women,
turned their adoring faces towards the Christ looking down upon them from
a crucifix above the tabernacle. On the north wall, about half the row
was unfinished; faces, haloes, drapery, strongly outlined in red, still
waited for the completing hand of the artist. The rest glowed and burned
with colour--colour the most singular, the most daring. The carnations
and rose colours, the golds and purples, the blues and lilacs and
greens--in the whole concert of tone, in spite of its general simplicity
of surface, there was something at once ravishing and troubling,
something that spoke as it were from passion to passion.

Laura's nature felt the thrill of it at once, just as she had felt the
thrill of the sunshine lighting up the tapestry of her room.

"Why isn't it crude and hideous?" she asked herself, in a marvel. "But it
isn't. One never saw such blues--except in the sea--or such greens--and
rose! And the angels between!--and the flowers under their