tallest and rose almost to the roof of the church, the Blessed Mother and Child stood
high up among the shadows. Today, with the leaden sky and floods of rain, it was too dark up there to see her clearly; but
the children thought they saw her, because they knew her face so well. She was by far the loveliest of all the Virgins in
Kebec, a charming figure of young motherhood, — oh, very young, and radiantly happy, with a stately crown, and a long, blue
cloak that parted in front over a scarlet robe. The little Jesus on her arm was not a baby, — he looked as if he would walk
if she put him down, and walk very well. He was so intelligent and gay, a child in a bright and joyful mood, both arms
outstretched in a gesture of welcome, as if he were giving a fête for his little friends and were in the act of receiving
them. He was a little Lord indeed, in his gaiety and graciousness and savoir-faire.
The rain fell on the roof and drove against the windows. Outside, the ledges of bare rock and all the sloping streets
were running water; everything was slippery and shiny with wet. The children sat contentedly in their corner, feeling the
goodness of shelter. Jacques remarked that it would be nice if there were more candles. The tapers on the votive
candle-stand were burning low, and nobody was coming in now because of the downpour. It was pleasanter, they agreed, when
there were enough candles burning before Sainte Anne to show the gold flowers on her cloak.
“Why don’t you light a candle, Cécile?” Jacques asked. “You do, sometimes.”
“Yes, but this morning I haven’t any money with me.”
Jacques sighed. “It would be nice,” he repeated.
“I wonder, Jacques, if it would be wrong for me to take a candle, and then bring the ten sous down later, when the rain
stops.”
Jacques brightened. He thought that a very good idea.
“But it’s irregular, Jacques. Perhaps it would not be right.”
“You wouldn’t forget, would you?”
“Oh, no! But I might be struck by lightning or something on the way home. And then, I expect, I’d die in sin.”
“But I would tell your father, and he would give me the ten sous to put in the box. I wouldn’t forget.”
She saw he wanted very much to light a candle. “Well, perhaps. I’ll try it this once, and I’ll light one for you, too.
Only be sure you don’t forget, if anything happens to me.”
They went softly up to the feet of Sainte Anne, where the candles were burning down in the metal basin. Each of them took
a fresh taper from the box underneath, lit it, and fitted its hollow base upon one of the little metal horns. After saying a
prayer they returned to their bench to enjoy the sight of the two new bright spots in the brownish gloom. Sure enough, when
the fresh tapers were burning well, the gold flowers on Sainte Anne’s cloak began to show; not entire, but wherever there
was a fold in the mantle, the gold seemed to flow like a glistening liquid. Her figure emerged from the dusk in a rich,
oily, yellow light.
After a long silence Jacques spoke.
“Cécile, all the saints in this church like children, don’t they?”
“Oh, yes! And Our Lord loves children. Because He was a child Himself, you know.”
Jacques had something else in mind. In a moment he brought it out. “Sometimes sailors are fond of children, too.”
“Yes,” she agreed with some hesitation.
He sensed a reservation in her voice.
“And they’re awful brave,” he went on feelingly. “If it wasn’t for the sailors, we wouldn’t have any ships from France,
or anything.”
“That’s true,” Cécile assented.
Jacques relapsed into silence. He was thinking of a jolly Breton sailor who had played with him in the summer, and carved
him a marvellous beaver out of wood and painted its teeth white. He had sailed away on La Garonne three weeks ago, nearly
breaking Jacques’s heart. With that curious tact of childhood, which fails less often than the deepest diplomacy, Jacques
almost
high up among the shadows. Today, with the leaden sky and floods of rain, it was too dark up there to see her clearly; but
the children thought they saw her, because they knew her face so well. She was by far the loveliest of all the Virgins in
Kebec, a charming figure of young motherhood, — oh, very young, and radiantly happy, with a stately crown, and a long, blue
cloak that parted in front over a scarlet robe. The little Jesus on her arm was not a baby, — he looked as if he would walk
if she put him down, and walk very well. He was so intelligent and gay, a child in a bright and joyful mood, both arms
outstretched in a gesture of welcome, as if he were giving a fête for his little friends and were in the act of receiving
them. He was a little Lord indeed, in his gaiety and graciousness and savoir-faire.
The rain fell on the roof and drove against the windows. Outside, the ledges of bare rock and all the sloping streets
were running water; everything was slippery and shiny with wet. The children sat contentedly in their corner, feeling the
goodness of shelter. Jacques remarked that it would be nice if there were more candles. The tapers on the votive
candle-stand were burning low, and nobody was coming in now because of the downpour. It was pleasanter, they agreed, when
there were enough candles burning before Sainte Anne to show the gold flowers on her cloak.
“Why don’t you light a candle, Cécile?” Jacques asked. “You do, sometimes.”
“Yes, but this morning I haven’t any money with me.”
Jacques sighed. “It would be nice,” he repeated.
“I wonder, Jacques, if it would be wrong for me to take a candle, and then bring the ten sous down later, when the rain
stops.”
Jacques brightened. He thought that a very good idea.
“But it’s irregular, Jacques. Perhaps it would not be right.”
“You wouldn’t forget, would you?”
“Oh, no! But I might be struck by lightning or something on the way home. And then, I expect, I’d die in sin.”
“But I would tell your father, and he would give me the ten sous to put in the box. I wouldn’t forget.”
She saw he wanted very much to light a candle. “Well, perhaps. I’ll try it this once, and I’ll light one for you, too.
Only be sure you don’t forget, if anything happens to me.”
They went softly up to the feet of Sainte Anne, where the candles were burning down in the metal basin. Each of them took
a fresh taper from the box underneath, lit it, and fitted its hollow base upon one of the little metal horns. After saying a
prayer they returned to their bench to enjoy the sight of the two new bright spots in the brownish gloom. Sure enough, when
the fresh tapers were burning well, the gold flowers on Sainte Anne’s cloak began to show; not entire, but wherever there
was a fold in the mantle, the gold seemed to flow like a glistening liquid. Her figure emerged from the dusk in a rich,
oily, yellow light.
After a long silence Jacques spoke.
“Cécile, all the saints in this church like children, don’t they?”
“Oh, yes! And Our Lord loves children. Because He was a child Himself, you know.”
Jacques had something else in mind. In a moment he brought it out. “Sometimes sailors are fond of children, too.”
“Yes,” she agreed with some hesitation.
He sensed a reservation in her voice.
“And they’re awful brave,” he went on feelingly. “If it wasn’t for the sailors, we wouldn’t have any ships from France,
or anything.”
“That’s true,” Cécile assented.
Jacques relapsed into silence. He was thinking of a jolly Breton sailor who had played with him in the summer, and carved
him a marvellous beaver out of wood and painted its teeth white. He had sailed away on La Garonne three weeks ago, nearly
breaking Jacques’s heart. With that curious tact of childhood, which fails less often than the deepest diplomacy, Jacques
almost
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