People would change, and would look upon Lucy with other eyes; all would be well. The old lady had managed through her long life to preserve a firm faith in some higher, unfailing justice.
One holiday forenoon she took Lucy to church. They seated themselves upon one of those old benches that gleam with a dark, red-brown sheen. The church was empty: Lucy happened to be looking at the altar,—an old altar. An indistinguishable black picture in a gold frame was hanging between two windows whose variegated panes colored the light from without. Four saints, sculptured by the inexperienced hand of a country artist, were standing at the sides. They were gleaming in new, bright colors. Lucy looked at them. Their smooth faces seemed comical to her, for the renovating painter had indicated with a bluish-grey paint the traces of their shaven hair and beard upon their sunken cheeks. She looked at the pillar of dust that rose obliquely from the chequered
