He must have the ring; but how--the
ring--the Roman ring--the white-robed bride starving--she was
going mad--ah yes--the church.
There it was, right in the busiest, most bustling part of the
town, its fresco and bronze and iron quaintly suggestive of
mediaeval times. Within, all was cool and dim and restful, with
the faintest whiff of lingering incense rising and pervading the
gray arches. Yes, the Virgin would know and have pity; the
sweet, white-robed Virgin at the pretty flower-decked altar, or
the one away up in the niche, far above the golden dome where the
Host was. Titiche, the busybody of the house, noticed that Miss
Sophie's bundle was larger than usual that afternoon. "Ah, poor
woman!" sighed Titiche's mother, "she would be rich for
Christmas."
The bundle grew larger each day, and Miss Sophie grew smaller.
The damp, cold rain and mist closed the white-curtained window,
but always there behind the sewing-machine drooped and bobbed the
little black-robed figure. Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and the
coarse jeans pants piled in great heaps at her side. The
Claiborne Street car saw her oftener than before, and the sweet
white Virgin in the flowered niche above the gold-domed altar
smiled at the little supplicant almost every day.
"Ma foi," said the slatternly landlady to Madame Laurent and
Michel one day, "I no see how she live! Eat? Nothin', nothin',
almos', and las' night when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I hav'
to mek him build fire.
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