were no flowers, but a little border of moss all around and a slip of pasteboard on a stick stuck into the ground with “a ma Mere” written on it.  All the graves are very simple, generally a plain white cross with headstone and name.  One or two of the rich farmers had something rather more important—­a slab of marble, or a broken column when it was a child’s grave, and were more ambitious in the way of flowers and green plants, but no show of any kind—­none of the terrible bead wreaths one sees in large cities.

There was a poor old woman, nearly bent double, leaning on a stick, standing at one of the very modest graves; a child about six years old with her, with a bunch of flowers in a broken cup she was trying to arrange at the foot of the grave.  I suppose my face was expressive, for the old woman answered my unspoken thought.  “Ah, yes, Madame, it is I who ought to be lying there instead of my children.  All gone before me except this one grandchild, and I a helpless, useless burden upon the charity of the parish.”

On my way home I met all the village children carrying flowers.  We had given our best chrysanthemums for the “pain benit,” which we offer to-morrow to the church.  Three or four times a year, at the great fetes, the most important families of the village offer the “pain benit,” which is then a brioche.  We gave our boulanger “carte blanche,” and he evidently was very proud of his performance, as he offered to bring it to us before it was sent to the church, but we told him we would see it there.  I am writing late.  We have all come upstairs.  It is so mild that my window is open; there is not a sound except the sighing of the wind in the pines and the church bells that are ringing for the vigil of All Saints.  Besides our own bells, we hear others, faintly, in the distance, from the little village of Neufchelles, about two miles off.  It is a bad sign when we hear Neufchelles too well.  Means rain.  I should be so sorry if it rained to-morrow, just as all the fresh flowers have been put on the graves.

November 2nd.  “Jour des Morts.”

We had a beautiful day yesterday and a nice service in our little church.  Our “pain benit” was a thing of beauty and quite distracted the school children.  It was a most imposing edifice—­two large, round brioches, four smaller ones on top, they went up in a pyramid.  The four small ones go to the notabilities of the village—­the cure, two of the principal farmers and the miller; the whole thing very well arranged, with red and white flowers and lighted tapers.  It was carried by two “enfants de choeur,” preceded by the beadle with his cocked hat and staff and followed by two small girls with lighted tapers.  The “enfants de choeur” were not in their festal attire of red soutanes and red shoes—­only in plain black.  Since the inventories ordered by the government in all the churches, most of the people have taken away their gifts in the way of vestments, soutanes, vases, etc., and the red soutanes, shoes and caps, with a handsome white satin embroidered vestment that C. gave the church when she was married, are carefully folded and put away in a safe place out of the church until better times should come.