betrayer of the life’s good and bad actions—­revealed that all had not been well with her; its lines were hard and vicious, and the resentful curve of the upper lip spoke of foolish pride, not unmixed with reckless sensuality.  She sat for a moment or two motionless; then, with exceeding care and tenderness, she began to unfold her thin, torn shawl by gentle degrees, looking down with anxious solicitude at the object concealed within.  Only a baby—­and withal a baby so tiny and white and frail that it seemed as though it must melt like a snowflake beneath the lightest touch.  As its wrappings were loosened it opened a pair of large, solemn blue eyes, and gazed at the woman’s face with a strange, pitiful wistfulness.  It lay quiet, without moan, a pinched, pale miniature of suffering humanity—­an infant with sorrow’s mark painfully impressed upon its drawn, small features.  Presently it stretched forth a puny hand and feebly caressed its protectress, and this, too, with the faintest glimmer of a smile.  The woman responded to its affection with a sort of rapture; she caught it fondly to her breast and covered it with kisses, rocking it to and fro with broken words of endearment.  “My little darling!” she whispered, softly.  “My little pet!  Yes, yes, I know!  So tired, so cold and hungry!  Never mind, baby, never mind!  We will rest here a little; then we will sing a song presently, and get some money to take us home.  Sleep awhile longer, deary!  There! now we are warm and cosey again.”

So saying, she rearranged her shawl in closer and tighter folds, so as to protect the child more thoroughly.  While she was engaged in this operation a lady in deep mourning passed close by her, and, advancing to the very steps of the altar, knelt down, hiding her face with her clasped hands.  The tired wayfarer’s attention was attracted by this; she gazed with a sort of dull wonder at the kneeling figure robed in rich rustling silk and crape, and gradually her eyes wandered upward, upward, till they rested on the gravely sweet and serenely smiling marble image of the Virgin and Child.  She looked and looked again—­surprised—­incredulous; then suddenly rose to her feet and made her way to the altar railing.  There she paused, staring vaguely at a basket of flowers, white and odorous, that had been left there by some reverent worshipper.  She glanced doubtfully at the swinging silver lamps, the twinkling candles; she was conscious, too, of a subtle, strange fragrance in the air, as though a basket full of spring violets and daffodils had just been carried by; then, as her wandering gaze came back to the solitary woman in black, who still knelt motionless near her, a sort of choking sensation came into her throat and a stinging moisture struggled in her eyes.  She strove to turn this hysterical sensation to a low laugh of disdain.

“Lord, Lord!” she muttered beneath her breath, “what sort of place is this, where they pray to a woman and a baby?”