We all worked hard for about an hour, and the little church looked quite transformed.  The red carpet covered all the worn, dirty places on the altar steps, and the pine branches were so high and so thick that the walls almost disappeared.  When the old woman (gardienne) appeared she was speechless with delight!  As soon as we had finished there, we adjourned to the school-house, and to our joy snow was falling—­quite heavy flakes.  Madame Isidore turned all the children into a small room, and we proceeded to set up our Tree.  It was a great deal too tall, and if we hadn’t been there they would certainly have chopped it off at the top, quite spoiling our beautiful point; but as we insisted, they cut away from the bottom, and it really was the regular pyramid one always wants for a Christmas Tree.  We put it in a big green case (which we had obtained with great difficulty from the gardener; it was quite empty, standing in the orangerie, but he was convinced we would never bring it back), moss all around it, and it made a great effect.  The “garde de Borny” arrived while we were working, and said he would certainly come to the church in his “tenue de garde”; our two keepers would also be there.

[Illustration:  There was one handsome bit of old lace on a white nappe for the altar.]

Thursday morning we went early (ten o’clock) to St. Quentin and spent over two hours decorating the Tree, ticketing and arranging all the little garments.  Every child in the neighbourhood was hanging around the school-house when we arrived, the entrance being strictly forbidden until after the service, when the Tree would be lighted.  I expressed great surprise at seeing the children at the school on a holiday, and there were broad grins as they answered, “Madame Waddington nous a dit de venir.”  It had snowed all night, and the clouds were low and gray, and looked as if they were still full of snow.  The going was extremely difficult; not that the snow was very deep, but there was enough to make the roads very slippery.  We had the horses “ferres a glace,” and even the donkey had nails on his shoes.  The country looked beautiful—­the poor little village quite picturesque, snow on all the dark roofs, and the church standing out splendidly from its carpet of snow—­the tall pines not quite covered, and always the curtain of forest shutting in the valley.

We left the maids to breakfast with the keeper, and promised to be back at three o’clock punctually.  Our coachman, Hubert, generally objects strongly to taking out his horses in bad weather on rough country roads and making three or four trips backward and forward; but to-day he was quite serene.  He comes from that part of the neighbourhood and is related to half the village.  Our progress was slow, as we stopped a good deal.  It was a pretty sight as we got near St. Quentin:  the church, brightly lighted, stood out well on the top of the hill against a background of tall trees, the branches just tipped