PALM SUNDAY.

The morning after her arrival in Rome, Agnes was awakened from sleep by a solemn dropping of bell-tones which seemed to fill the whole air, intermingled dimly at intervals with long-drawn plaintive sounds of chanting.  She had slept profoundly, overwearied with her pilgrimage, and soothed by that deep lulling sense of quiet which comes over one, when, after long and weary toils, some auspicious goal is at length reached.  She had come to Rome, and been received with open arms into the household of the saints, and seen even those of highest degree imitating the simplicity of the Lord in serving the poor.  Surely, this was indeed the house of God and the gate of heaven; and so the bell-tones and chants, mingling with her dreams, seemed naturally enough angel-harpings and distant echoes of the perpetual adoration of the blessed.  She rose and dressed herself with a tremulous joy.  She felt full of hope that somehow—­in what way she could not say—­this auspicious beginning would end in a full fruition of all her wishes, an answer to all her prayers.

“Well, child,” said old Elsie, “you must have slept well; you look fresh as a lark.”

“The air of this holy place revives me,” said Agnes, with enthusiasm.

“I wish I could say as much,” said Elsie.  “My bones ache yet with the tramp, and I suppose nothing will do but we must go out now to all the holy places, up and down and hither and yon, to everything that goes on.  I saw enough of it all years ago when I lived here.”

“Dear grandmother, if you are tired, why should you not rest?  I can go forth alone in this holy city.  No harm can possibly befall me here.  I can join any of the pilgrims who are going to the holy places where I long to worship.”

“A likely story!” said Elsie.  “I know more about old Rome than you do, and I tell you, child, that you do not stir out a step without me; so if you must go, I must go too,—­and like enough it’s for my soul’s health.  I suppose it is,” she added, after a reflective pause.

“How beautiful it was that we were welcomed so last night!” said Agnes,—­“that dear lady was so kind to me!”

“Ay, ay, and well she might be!” said Elsie, nodding her head.  “But there’s no truth in the kindness of the nobles to us, child.  They don’t do it because they love us, but because they expect to buy heaven by washing our feet and giving us what little they can clip and snip off from their abundance.”

“Oh, grandmother,” said Agnes, “how can you say so?  Certainly, if any one ever spoke and looked lovingly, it was that dear lady.”

“Yes, and she rolls away in her carriage, well content, and leaves you with a pair of new shoes and stockings,—­you, as worthy of a carriage and a palace as she.”

“No, grandmamma; she said she should send for me to talk more with her.”

“She said she should send for you?” said Elsie.  “Well, well, that is strange, to be sure!—­that is wonderful!” she added, reflectively.  “But come, child, we must hasten through our breakfast and prayers, and go to see the Pope, and all the great birds with fine feathers that fly after him.”