the hour of ten
Finally Zotique said quietly , `` My coming back was all a mistake , Vital ; I never thought you cared for her in that way ; you were always so quiet and absent-minded that I misunderstood you . '' He paused for a few moments and then went on unevenly : `` After I get back -- perhaps not just at once -- I will write and tell her how fortunate she is . '' * * * * * The Faith that Removes Mountains . Just as the bells in the great towers of old Notre Dame Church , in Montreal , were striking the hour of ten , a gust of October wind , more fierce than its fellows , bore down upon the trees in the French Square fronting the church , tore from them multitudes of leaves , brown and crisp and dry , drove them past the ancient church , along Notre Dame Street , across the Champ de Mars to St. Dominique Street , and heaped them sportively in the doorway of a quaint French-Canadian cottage . There huddling apprehensively together , the door opened , just as the wind with renewed vigor beat down upon them once more . For a few moments a weird , bent figure , crutch in hand , stood in the doorway gasping for breath , her claw-like hands brushing away the leaves , which clung to her as if affrighted . The weight of years bore upon her so heavily that she scarcely had strength to close the door in the face of the riotous storm .