their own in trying to save the lives of others, and of brave
citizens of Rheims who had fallen in an attempt to save the
precious relics carefully treasured there. Neither did she tell
them that little Jean, the Verger's son, was one of that heroic
band. These sorrows she bore in her own breast, but she never
passed near the Cathedral after that terrible night. Sometimes,
when a necessary errand took her to that part of the City, she
would pause at a distance to look long at the statue of Jeanne
d'Arc, standing unharmed in the midst of the destruction about
her still lifting her sword to the sky. In all the rain of shells
which had fallen upon the City not one had yet touched the
statue. Only the tip of the sword had been broken off. It
comforted Mother Meraut to see it standing so strangely safe in
the midst of such desolation. "It stands," she thought, " even as
her pure spirit stood safe amidst the flames of her martyrdom.
But I cannot, like her, pray for my enemies while I burn in the
fires they have kindled."

There was yet another burden which she carried safely hidden in
her heart. She had not heard from her father and mother since the
Battle of the Marne. That the Germans had passed through the
village where they lived she knew, but what destruction they had
wrought she could only guess. It was impossible for her at that
time to go to them; so she waited in silence, hoping that some
time good news might come. The slow weeks lengthened into months,
and at last Father Meraut was strong enough to get about on a
crutch like Father Varennes. It was a great day when first he was
able to hobble down the steps and out upon the street, leaning on
Mother Meraut's arm on one side, and his crutch upon the other,
with Pierre and Pierrette marching before him like a guard of