The Story of a Summer / Or, Journal Leaves from Chappaqua

ouse-Our First Sunday at Chappaqua-Drive to Mount Kisco-A

, WESTCHE

k, May

e heart to journalize tonight, everything seems so sad and strange. What

y

flower-garden. Here I found a wilderness of purple and white lilacs, longing, I thought, for a friendly hand to gather them before they faded; dear little bright-eyed pansies, and scarle

n: The Side-

against the inclemency of the weather upon returning from a drive. But this house, in the building of which she took so keen an interest, she was not destined to inhabit, although with that buoyancy of mind and tenacity to life that characterized her during her long years of weary illness, she contemplated being carried into it during the early days of

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little household, however-mamma, Marguerite, and I-belong to the grand old Church of Rome; so the carriage was ordered, and with our brother in religion, Bernard, the coachman, for a pioneer, we started to find a church or chapel of the Latin

is it not a source of pride to Catholics that their church is open alike to the humbles

hills, and

chapel indeed-a plain frame building, with no pretence to architectural beauty. It was intended originally, I thought, for a Protestant meeting-house, as the cruciform shape, so conspicuous in all Catholic-built churches was wanting here. The whitewashed wall

The seats and kneeling-benches were uncushioned, and the congregation was composed, as Bernard said, entirely of the working class; b

y of his small congregation wished to receive Communion, as it was a festival; consequently, he spent the next hour not literally in the confessional, for there was none, but in the tin

ments which lay upon the altar-steps, he proceeded with the utmost nonchalance to put them

or organist. Quite a contrast to a Sunday at St. Stephen's or St. Francis

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d the prospect of having to train some unskilled specimens of foreign peasantry weighed heavily, I fancy, upon our beautiful Ida i

en named; then we four girls-la Dame Chatelaine, with her fair face, dark, pensive eyes, and modest dignity; Gabrielle, or Tourbillon, our brilliant pet,

hman, whom the maids always find very beguiling; Lina, the autocrat of the kitchen, a little, wiry-loo

o emulate her mistress in dress. It is really quite refreshing to see a servant dressed as a servant. Minna is the perfection of neatness, and her plain stuff or print gowns are sans reproche in their freshness. In the matter of aprons she must be quite reckless, for they always look as if just from the ironing-table. They are made, too, in an especially pretty fashion that I have never before seen out o

y after breakfast, and said, "Where s

inna," I replied. "You a

?ulein C

rt here," I said, "but there i

bitte, is not the Pfingsten a Fest-tag in America? In our country, you

only a Fest-tag in her church, mine, and the Church of England, and that it

ingsten should not be Pfingsten the world over, and a public ho