that, or any truth, accepted, she would hardly shrink from whatever it involved. this was the reason why she had really feared to ask the holy ghosts enlightenment! so well she understood herself! truth was truth, and, if received, to be abided by. she could not hold it loosely. she could not trifle with it. she was born in domrémy. she had played under the fairy oak. she knew the woods where joan wandered when she sought her saintly solitude. the fact was acting on her as an inspiration, when domrémy became a memory, when she labored far away from the wooded vosges and the meadows of lorraine. she listened to the reading, as girls do not always listen when they sit in the presence of a reader such as young le roy. and let it here be understoodthat the conclusion bring no sorrow, and no sense of wrong to those who turn these pages, thinking to find the climax dear to half-fledged imagination, incapable from inexperience of any deeper truth, (i render them all homage!)this story is not told for any sake but truths. this jacqueline did listen to this victor, thinking actually of the words he read. she looked at him really to ascertain whether her apprehension of these things was all the same as his. she questioned him, with the simple desire to learn what he could tell her. her hands were very hard, so constant had been her dealing with the rough facts of this life; but the hard hand was firm in its clasp, and ready with its helpfulness. her eyes were open, and very clear of dreams. there was room in them for tenderness as well as truth. her voice was not the sweetest of all voices in this world; but it had the quality that would make it prized by others when heart and flesh were failing; for it would be strong to speak then with cheerful faith and an unfaltering courage. jacqueline sat there under the chestnut-trees, upon the river-bank, strong-hearted, high-hearted, a brave, generous woman. what if her days were toilsome? what if her peasant-dress was not the finest woven in the looms of paris or of meaux? her prayers were brief, her toil was long, her sleep was sound,her virtue firm as the everlasting mountains. jacqueline, i have singled you from among hordes and tribes and legions upon legions of women, one among ten thousand, altogether lovely,not for dalliance, not for idleness, not for dancing, which is well; not for song, which is better; not for beauty, which, perhaps, is best; not for grace, or power, or passion. there is an attribute of god which is more to his universe than all evidence of power. it is his truth. jacqueline, it is for this your name shall shine upon my page. and, manifestly, it is by virtue of this quality that her reader is moved and attracted at this hour of twilight on the river-bank. her intelligence is so quick! her apprehension so direct! her conclusions so true! he intended to aid her; but mazurier himself had never uttered comments so entirely to the purpose as did this young girl, speaking from heart and brain. better fortune, apparently, could not have befallen him than was his in this reading; for with every sentence almost came her comment, clear, earnest, to the point. he had need of such a friend as jacqueline seemed able to prove herself. his nearest living relative was an uncle, who had sent the ambitious and capable young student to meaux; for he gave great promise, and was worth an experiment, the old man thought,and was strong to be thrown out into the world, where he might ascertain the power of self-reliance. he had need of friends, and, of all friends, one like jacqueline. from the silence and retirement of his home in picardy he had come to meaux,the town that was so astir, busy, thoroughly alive! inexperienced in worldly ways he came. his face was beautiful with its refinement and power of expression. his eyes were full of eloquence; so also was his voice. when he came from picardy to meaux, his old neighbors prophesied for him. he knew their prophecies, and purposed to fulfil them. he ceased from dreaming, when he came to meaux. he was not dreaming, when he looked on jacqueline. he was aware of what he read, and how she listened, under those chestnut-trees. the burden of the tracts he read to jacqueline was salvation by faith, not of works,an iconoclastic doctrine, that was to sweep away the great mass of romish superstition, invalidating papal power. image-worship, shrine-frequenting sacrifices, indulgences, were esteemed and proved less than nothing worth in the work of salvation. did you understand john, when he said that the priests deceived us and were full of robberies, and talked about the masses for the dead, and said the only good of them was to put money into the church? asked jacqueline. i believe it, he replied, with spirit. that the masses are worth nothing? she asked,far from concealing that the thought disturbed her. what can they be worth, if a man has lived a bad life? _that_ my father did _not!_ she exclaimed. if a man is a bad man, why, then he is. he has gone where he must be judged. the scripture says, as a tree falls, it must lie. my father was a good man, victor. but he died of a sudden, and there was no time. no time for what, jacqueline? no time for him to turn about, and be a bad man in the end? no time for confession and absolution. he died praying god to forgive him all his sins