Her face is white like mother-of-pearl, and her hair, a circular tissue of sunshine, radiates in threads of gold.

She is the Bride of Canticles.
_Pulchra ut Luna, electa ut Sol_.
"The church which is Her dwelling-place, and one with Her, is luminous with Her grace; the gems of the windows sing to Her praise; the slender columns shooting upwards, from the pavement to the roof, symbolize Her aspirations and desires; the floor tells of Her humility; the vaulting, meeting to form a canopy over Her, speaks of Her charity; the stones and glass echo hymns to Her.

There is nothing, down to the military aspect of certain details of the sanctuary, the chivalrous touch which is a reminiscence of the Crusades--the sword-blades and shields of the lancet windows and the roses, the helm-shaped arches, the coat of mail that clothes the older spire, the iron trellis-pattern of some of the panes--nothing that does not arouse a memory of the passage at Prime and the hymn at Lauds in the minor office of the Virgin, and typify the _terribilis ut castrorum acies ordonata_, the privilege She possesses when She chooses to use it, of being 'terrible as an army arrayed for battle.' "But She does not often choose to exert here, I believe; this cathedral mirrors rather Her inexhaustible sweetness, Her indivisible glory." "Ah! Much shall be forgiven you because you have loved much," cried Madame Bavoil.
And Durtal having risen to say good-bye, she kissed him affectionately, maternally, and said,-- "We will pray with all our might, our friend, that God may enlighten you and show you your path, may lead you Himself into the way you ought to go." "I hope, Monsieur l'Abbe, that during my absence your rheumatism will grant you a little respite," said Durtal, pressing the old priest's hand.
"Oh, I must not wish to have no sufferings at all, for there is no cross so heavy as having none," replied the Abbe.

"So do as I do, or rather, do better than I, for I still repine; put a cheerful face on your aridity, and your trials .-- Goodbye, God bless you!" "And may the great Mother of Madonnas of France, the sweet Lady of Chartres, protect you!" added Madame Bavoil.
And when the door was shut, she added with a sigh,-- "Certainly, I should be very grieved if he left our town for ever, for that friend is almost like a child of our own! At the same time I should be very, very happy to think of him as a true monk!" Then she began to laugh.
"Father," said she, "will they cut his moustache off if he enters the cloister ?" "Undoubtedly." She tried to imagine Durtal clean-shaven, and she concluded with a laugh,-- "I do not think it will improve his beauty." "Oh, these women!" said the Abbe, shrugging his shoulders.
"And what, in short," asked she, "may we hope for from this journey ?" "It is not of me that you should ask that, Madame Bavoil." "Very true," said she, and clasping her hands she murmured,-- "It depends on Thee! Help him in his poverty, remember that he can do nothing without Thine aid, Holy Temptress of men, Our Lady of the Pillar, Virgin of the Crypt." THE END..