Chapter 1
The French Church, properly the Church of Sainte-Agnes, stood
upon a hill. The high, narrow, red-brick building, with its tall
steeple and steep roof, could be seen for miles across the
wheatfields, though the little town of Sainte-Agnes was completely
hidden away at the foot of the hill. The church looked powerful and
triumphant there on its eminence, so high above the rest of the
landscape, with miles of warm color lying at its feet, and by its
position and setting it reminded one of some of the churches built
long ago in the wheat-lands of middle France.
Late one June afternoon Alexandra Bergson was driving along one
of the many roads that led through the rich French farming country
to the big church. The sunlight was shining directly in her face,
and there was a
