as if one was a pagan.  Protestantism in France always has seemed to me such a rigid form of worship, so little calculated to influence young people or draw them to church.  The plain, bare churches with white-washed walls, the long sermons and extempore prayers, speaking so much of the anger of God and the terrible punishments awaiting the sinner, the trials and sorrows that must come to all.  I often think of a sermon I heard preached in one Protestant church, to the boys and girls who were making their first communion—­all little things, the girls in their white frocks and long white veils, the boys with white waistcoats and white ribbons on their arms, making such a pretty group as they sat on the front benches listening hard to all the preacher said.  I wondered that the young, earnest faces didn’t suggest something to him besides the horrors of eternal punishment, the wickedness and temptations of the world they were going to face, but his only idea seemed to be that he must warn them of all the snares and temptations that were going to beset their paths.  Mme. A. couldn’t understand my ideas when I said I loved the Episcopal service—­the prayers and litany I had always heard, the Easter and Christmas hymns I had always sung, the carols, the anthems, the great organ, the flowers at Easter, the greens at Christmas.  All that seemed to her to be a false sentiment appealing to the senses and imagination.  “But if it brings people to church, and the beautiful music elevates them and raises their thoughts to higher things—­” “That is not religion; real religion means the prayer of St. Chrysostom, ’Where two or three are gathered together in My name I will grant their requests.’” “That is very well for really religious, strong people who think out their religion and don’t care for any outward expression of it, but for weaker souls who want to be helped, and who are helped by the beautiful music and the familiar prayers, surely it is better to give them something that brings them to church and makes them better men and women than to frighten them away with such strict, uncompromising doctrines—­” “No, that is only sentiment, not real religious feeling.”  I don’t think we ever understood each other any better on that subject, and we discussed it so often.

* * * * *

Mme. A., with whom I made my round of calls at the neighbouring chateaux, was a charming companion.  She had lived a great deal in Paris, in the Protestant coterie, which was very intellectual and cultivated.  The salons of the Duchesse de Broglie, Mmes. de Stael, d’Haussonville, Guizot, were most interesting and recherches, very exclusive and very serious, but a centre for all political and literary talk.  I have often heard my husband say some of the best talkers in society s’etaient formes dans ces salons, where, as young men, they listened modestly to all the brilliant conversation going on around them.

It was an exception when we found anyone at home when we called in the neighbourhood, and when we did, it was evident that afternoon visits were a rarity.  We did get in one cold November afternoon, and our visit was a sample of many others that we paid.