It is very large, and has the inevitable tin roof common
to most Canadian churches, a glaringly ugly object to behold on a hot
afternoon, taking away by its obtrusiveness the restful feeling one
naturally associates with a sacred edifice. This on the outside; inside,
fortunately, all is different, and more like the Gothic architecture of
Northern France than one would imagine from the exterior.
Next comes the railway station, a large ugly building painted a neutral
brown. Here everything was very quiet this afternoon, for except at the
seasons of the pilgrimages to the church of the Good Saint Anne of Father
Point, five miles lower down the line, there is as a rule little traffic
going on.
Between Rimouski and Father Point (called by the French Pointe a Pere) is
a long dusty road, very flat, and, except where the gulf comes in to the
coast in frequent little bays, very uninteresting.
There are few houses on this road, and these are far apart.
At the doorstep of one of these cottages--a well-kept, clean and neat
little dwelling--sat, this August afternoon, an old woman, spinning
busily.
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