the sight. I was of these last. From time to time, whenever I had a
moment, I came out, I know not why, to see if there was any change. But
to gaze upon that altered prospect for hours, as some did, would have
been intolerable to me. I could not linger nor try to imagine what might
be passing there, either among those who were within (as was believed),
or those who were without the walls. Neither could I pray as many did.
My devotions of every day I will never, I trust, forsake or forget, and
that my Martin was always in my mind is it needful to say? But to go
over and over all the vague fears that were in me, and all those
thoughts which would have broken my heart had they been put into words,
I could not do this even to the good Lord Himself. When I suffered
myself to think, my heart grew sick, my head swam round, the light went
from my eyes. They are happy who can do so, who can take the _bon Dieu_
into their confidence, and say all to Him; but me, I could not do it. I
could not dwell upon that which was so terrible, upon my home abandoned,
my son--Ah! now that it is past, it is still terrible to think of. And
then it was all I was capable of, to trust my God and do what was set
before me. God, He knows what it is we can do and what we cannot. I
could not tell even to Him all the terror and the misery and the
darkness there was in me; but I put my faith in Him. It was all of which
I was capable. We are not made alike, neither in the body nor in the
soul.

And there were many women like me at La Clairière. When we had done each
piece of work we would look out with a kind of hope, then go back to
find something else to do--not looking at each other, not saying a word.
Happily there was a great deal to do. And to see how some of the women,
and those the most anxious, would work, never resting, going on from one
thing to another, as if they were hungry for more and more! Some did it
with their mouths shut close, with their countenances fixed, not daring