The 
 
 :hangelings 
 
 By 
 
 LUCY M. ROSS 
 
 PRICE, 15 cents per copy 
 
 Washington, D. C. 
 Copyright. 192 1 
 
 m. 
 

 The 
 
 CHANGELINGS 
 
 By 
 
 LUCY M. ROSS 
 
 PRICE, 15 cents per copy 
 
 Washington, D. C. 
 Copyright. 19 2 1 
 
 ^HUIMHll 
 
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THE CHARACTERS c} <> ^ 
 
 Mlle. Lucie Mme. Joffret 
 
 Her Aunt M. Joffret 
 
 M. Richard Victor 
 
 Count Gustave St. Jean 
 
 CHAPTERS 
 
 I. Introducing Characters 3 
 
 II, The Birthday = 6 
 
 III. The Opera ^ 11 
 
 IV. The Unfortunate L.e .....,, 12 
 
 V. The Crucifix 14 
 
 VI. My Nemesis .......19 
 
 VII. The Evasion 21 
 
 VIII. Judgment 2S 
 
 IX. Sequel 27 
 
 X. Advice 29 
 
 XI. Conclusion 3 1 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 My title puts me a little ahead of my story, orig-inally 
 written in a synopsis of seventy-five words for a movie. 
 
 I found scenario editors and producers were a close 
 corporation, into which, like a burglar who has broken 
 into a safe, once in, there were great rewards to be had. 
 There is no copyright for a synopsis, only fiction and the 
 reel. Therefore, I chose the short story. 
 
 aUG -8 ;9'2i ©C1A623012 
 
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 ^> CHAPTER I 
 
 Introdncing the Characters 
 
 I was a young- lady student in Paris, France, attending 
 certain professor classes at a ladies' school. My mother, 
 returning- to our home in the States, left me at my aunt's. 
 She lived in an apartment on the first floor of a house 
 owned by the Count Gustave de Saint Jean, whose nursling 
 foster brother, M. Richard, lived on the ground floor and 
 was the agent, employing his sister, Madame Joffret, and 
 her ex-soldier husband as servants to himself. 
 
 Aunt was the widow of a French refugee, with prop- 
 erty in New Orleans, later restored to grace by Napoleon 
 III, dying shortly thereafter. She had contrasted her 
 married life with that of her sister, my mother, concluded 
 Americans made the best husbands and encouraged no 
 French ideas in me. 
 
 M. Richard being so badly crippled and of such a fine 
 character, however, she felt no objection to introducing 
 me to him. I spent most of my leisure time out of doors 
 on his terrace in the rear garden with him. His sister 
 liked me and was always ready to chaperone me on the 
 streets or in the art galleries. In her white cap, large 
 white apron and with her straight carriage, she was the 
 personification of dignity in service. 
 
 By my sympathy I made a great friend of her, when 
 she told me she was the nurse who injured M. Richard by 
 letting- him fall. She had climbed the broken stone steps 
 of an old ruin on the St. Jean's estate, a thing often done 
 before without mishap, but recent rains had undermined a 
 stone on which she stepped in her descent; it slipped from 
 under her feet, as she fell, the babe she held seemed to fly 
 out of her arms to a lower ledge with his back on a stone. 
 Although hurt herself, she felt it not in her fright for the 
 babe, who was unconscious, she feared, dead. 
 
 Every breath she drew on her flight with him for home 
 was a prayer he'd live, no matter what was in store for 
 his life. She regretted that selfish prayer when she saw 
 his sufferings. I consoled her with the idea that it was 
 hard for a rich man or able man to enter heaven, so it was, 
 perhaps, easier with his poor body, and heaven was the best 
 
anyone could achieve. God had permitted the misfortune. 
 He would bring- forth good; and we must help all we could 
 toward that good. 
 
 She showed her liking for me by surprise teas and 
 luncheons of which she invited me to partake with her 
 brother, while she waited upon us in the order she thought 
 proper to her station. 
 
 Her husband, after his household duties were com- 
 pleted, for his private purse sold macaroons from a long- 
 tin cylinder, attracting sales by means of a noisy rattle. 
 The pair had been denied children, so both took to me. 
 
 I was interested in the gold and silver church and 
 court embroideries and designs that were M. Richard's em- 
 ployment. It may interest many to learn of this work 
 which required tools adapted to it, such as needles with 
 two eyes, as metal thread cannot be bent. They were 
 threaded as a bodkin and the end snipped at each side to a 
 sharp point so as not to catch at the sides. A flat ribbon 
 of metal was pointed the same without a needle to aid, if 
 strong enough, for the arms of the cross or the largest rays 
 of the surrounding rays of glory, which was made of all 
 sized threads in long stitches. 
 
 A backing of book muslin was tacked on with long 
 stitches of white thread on the back of the material. This 
 was to keep it from drawing up and to have the stitches 
 fastened in at the start or end of stitches, as these threads 
 can not be knotted. 
 
 A working drawing was enlarged from a small design. 
 Headed pins were at the outer ends, pinning it to the 
 place at the principal end of rays, this was measured ex- 
 actly on the thin paper guide. 
 
 The size of the lamb's place was marked off and cut 
 out of this paper guide. When the principal rays in paper 
 were torn off, then the needle with two eyes filled the out- 
 line of rays. A stiletto started the needle holes. 
 
 The padding of the lamb was made on a cut out lamb 
 of the paper muslin, molded with fine cotton batting; un- 
 der the batting were fastenings of wire to spread after 
 entering the goods. 
 
 The stem of the cross was a slanting stitch of ribbon 
 metal up to and end in the lamb's place. The lamb looked 
 woolly because it was made with a silver thread like the 
 overstrung strings on a violin or guitar, only much finer. 
 It went back and forth and was caught down with a needle 
 full of waxed thread that went under, back and forth, to 
 meet it. 
 
 A lamb like a button could be applied, but this would 
 not be as firm as if embroidered on the goods. A finer 
 thread was used for the head. 
 
 When completed, the muslin was cut away. A bur- 
 nisher of an agate in a porcupine's quill brightened up 
 the stitches where needed; they were of sixteen or eighteen 
 
 [4] 
 
SI 
 
 ma 
 visi 
 
 karat gold. No threads were held down on outside by 
 stitches; tacking threads were cut close to the outside 
 material so as to be sure to pull out with the surplus 
 muslin backing- when cut off. A piece of soft wood was 
 used with a knife and ruler, for strips for the rays, but 
 if there were none, the widths furnished were preferred. 
 All cut lengths were measured so as to save the expen- 
 -'ve thread, and pulling through the heavy material. 
 The Count, our landlord, in compliance with a vow 
 de to his dying mother to care for his foster brother, 
 .-..ited as usual and met me. The Count was in the 
 guards, but visited in civilian clothes, they being more 
 free from observation. The Count always brought a 
 gift after meeting me, more often a box of imported 
 Philadelphia candies. He would hand them to M. Richard, 
 who unwrapped them and gave them to me to distribute. 
 When the Count took one of the smaller kind I suggested 
 he take several at once. "Oh, no," objected M. Richard, 
 "do as I do, prolong the pleasure of having mademoiselle 
 busy m offering them." The Count needed no leadings 
 m gallantry. Right before him Mme. Joffret would warn 
 me of him as a gay boy, spoilt from a baby; this in a nice 
 gay French way, but behind his back she would say he 
 was too "epris" of me. Richard said they could under- 
 stand that, therefore, forgive; I was sensible enough 
 and knew it was persiflage and certainly he was always 
 a gentleman, so we would get back at once to our more 
 useful reading. 
 
 [5] 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 The Birthday 
 
 My aunt went with a friend to the modiste, and the 
 saleslady asked if they knew a young lady, a returned 
 dress sent out too late, would fit, it was a great bargain. 
 Aunt thought of my birthday and had it sent home. She 
 showed Mme. Joffret the beautiful surprise for me. Only 
 two days before my birthday that lady told her gentle- 
 men and M. Joffret in his turn refused to sell Victor, 
 the Count's valet, any macaroons, as he was keeping the 
 last of his stock as his surprise for the little American's 
 fete. Victor thought he had surprised this news from the 
 old man, and in turn carried it to his master, who dis- 
 patched him at once for his own surprise, some candies 
 I preferred. Victor caught the inflection so far as to 
 give Mme. Joffret a bouquet for her table and entertaining. 
 
 Thus do secrets and scandals spread, the careless word, 
 never to be recalled. 
 
 Mme. Joffret with some embroideries she had, ordered 
 a scarf made with them. I took gifts from these friends 
 for I was amply provided and could make returns. 
 
 Aunt had been given an invitation to the opera in the 
 place of a lady of the party not being able to go; and 
 when she saw me in the fine dress, she made up her mind 
 to take me and risk there being room. 
 
 I let the maid do my hair in grown up style. She 
 wanted to rouge and powder me as well; I refused the 
 paint but submitted to the powder. Then I sped in my 
 finery to my friends below stairs. 
 
 "What have you done, my child?" were the first words 
 of M. Richard. "Spoilt your so clear complexion with 
 nasty powder, and so thick too! Goodness on us! Your 
 greatest beauty was that clearness of skin; it seemed 
 transparent. Now look at it." I said I didn't like it, 
 but the maid was so kind on my birthday, and said night- 
 lights required it. "Come to me, lend me that lace rag, 
 your handkerchief, I'll do all the repairs possible." And 
 holding my chin in one hand, he wiped and rubbed the 
 stuff off with the other. "There, that's better. Never 
 use powdered minerals or even cereals to dust your face. 
 Unavoidable dirt is sufficient evil." 
 
 [6] 
 
To dissipate his anger, I was laughing merrily at him, 
 when Mme. came in with Victor's flowers, saying, "I 
 took them from Victor, I wanted them for the table. He 
 wanted to see the 'Americaine,' but I am not to be fooled. 
 I was afraid he could hear you laugh. It's a good laugh, 
 and may he think it was at him." 
 
 M. Richard had a preparation of his own, some vanilla 
 beans steeped in cognac and sugar, a fine but strong- 
 drink. They put water in my glass and added the liquid. 
 Mme. Joffret then filled liquor glasses for Monsieur and 
 herself, and we clicked glasses with Monsieur and he 
 made a toast. We had just put our glasses down while 
 M. Joffret answered a ring, and the Count's jingle of 
 military trappings and hasty steps approached. He en- 
 tered with his salute of clicking heels and bow, looked 
 at me with, "Pardon, Mademoiselle, what a surprise a 
 change of coiffure can make with you ladies; even a hair's 
 place can produce results. Allow me to compliment you 
 on your appearance." 
 
 ''Yes," I replied, ''fine feathers make the difference. 
 See my new dress from my aunt." And I turned all 
 around to show it off. "My scarf with the beautiful flow- 
 ers on it, is some of Monsieur's own .work. I'm so happy 
 for the unexpected gifts. And the macaroons on their 
 papers here, tied with a big ribbon, from M. Joffret, too. 
 The maid took in your confections, but I have been re- 
 miss in not bringing them with me here. I saw your 
 card, though I didn't need to know the sender, did I?" 
 
 Count: "I hope so, but why the secret? Why was 
 I not to know about your fete? I only found it out 
 through Victor not getting the macaroons I ordered him 
 to get for me. Why so selfish of you all?" 
 
 Mile.: "Oh! I'd forgotten everything about birthdays 
 till this morning aunt gave me the letter from my parents 
 she had, and the dress to try on. She showed my dress 
 to Mme. Joffret, and Mme. got busy at once about the 
 scarf. She didn't like black for me, but it was a piece of 
 good satin, left over, and another bargain." 
 
 Count: "Julie, you can't sew, did Richard make the 
 scarf as well as embroider it?" 
 
 Julie: "It is not embroidered, only applique, I took 
 the embroideries I had to see what could be done with 
 them, and was persuaded to buy the black satin. It is a 
 useful color but too old." 
 
 Count : "But why didn't you tell me about the date, 
 you seem to have had plenty of time?" 
 
 Julie: "I have not seen you since I was shown the 
 intended surprise dress. Do you mean to say, I should 
 have sent you word?" 
 
 Count: "Well, I understand Victor surprised it out 
 of Joffret." 
 
 Richard: "Not at all, he was free to tell it." 
 
Count: '*I understand you, I gave Julie the credit of 
 it all. I have not liked her badinage, her portraiture of 
 me. I don't take any of my pleasures at the expense of 
 others, more especially my friends." 
 
 Richard: "You have reason, I should not have al- 
 lowed it. I thought only of her loyalty to her sex." 
 
 Julie: "I can say for myself, I had no thoughts of 
 pleasure, Mademoiselle is safe from that fear. My motives 
 was loyalty to her aunt, who told me of the intentions of 
 her parents, and the reason she kept her niece to studies 
 and in seclusion." 
 
 M. Richard: ''That's sufficient. Mademoiselle is 
 present and it's her fete, such as Americans keep, not her 
 name day but the day of her birth. She is not staying 
 with us this evening, but is ready to go with her aunt to 
 the opera, not for the first time in her life, but the first 
 in a long time." 
 
 Count: "Let me see what flowers we have here that 
 she could wear. Her coiff'ure has no ornaments." 
 
 Mile.: "No ornament! Why Louise spoilt no end of 
 ribbon on it before she got the effect she desired. Is it 
 not enough for me?" 
 
 Count: "Yes, yes, but it will be more perfect the 
 way I propose for it, you'll see." 
 
 The Count went to the table to look over the flowers 
 there. 
 
 Count: "I know Victor was going to give Julie flowers 
 for her entertaining. These are doubtless his, a mixed lot 
 at a bargain, also I suppose. Here is a stray camellia, 
 good white but no leaf, a single flower should have a 
 leaf. All the same, it must do." 
 
 Taking it out he held it toward me. "Mademoiselle, you 
 are wearing your gifts. Will you honor me also and 
 wear my camellia in your hair? They are lasting and 
 stand heat well." 
 
 Mile. : "As it makes the third bargain, and three is a 
 complete number, I cannot refuse such luck." 
 
 Richard : "Three a complete number, what do you 
 mean. Mademoiselle?" 
 
 Mile. : "Don't you know the meanings of numbers and 
 colors? Why, the trines, beginning with the Holy Trin- 
 ity — Father, Son and Spirit. The family, Father, Mother 
 and Children. The Man^Body, Spirit. The Inmost God, 
 Eternal Life, — and so on. The Colors — White, the truth, 
 containing all colors; Blue, Faith; Red, Love; Purple, the 
 mixture of Red and Blue, charity, or brotherly love. The 
 whole of the rainbow's hues. I find their study charming." 
 
 Richard: "Where do you get your meanings? Who 
 is your authority?" 
 
 Mile. : "A poet greater than you have as yet intro- 
 duced me to, although he wrote only in dry Latin prose," 
 
 Richard: "Greater Poet? Is it possible?" 
 
 [8] 
 
Mll^.": "Yes, in descriptions, spirituality, interpreta- 
 tions jf forms and material terms ; with more lofty prophe- 
 cies and previsions that you find so marvelous in the 
 poe'cs. I am more attracted by his poetic than by any 
 otVer of his powers; at least that first attracted me to his 
 a.ttentive study, as it would you, M. Richard." 
 
 Richard: ''And in imagination, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 Mile.: ''Oh! some say he went crazy in his imagery. 
 He claims it was a Revealed Science; but I'll tell you of 
 him some other time. I have to put the Count's flower in 
 my hair; he is waiting on me." I reached out to take it 
 from his hand, and as my fingers touched his, I felt his 
 hand slightly trembling, and unable to assist me in quickly 
 taking it, he seemed to me to pinch it, so I seized it and 
 carried it at once to my head and thrust the stem into a 
 coil there. 
 
 Count: "That won't do, it may fall out; you must se- 
 cure it there. Here, Julie, a hair pin." 
 
 She took one out of her braids and wiped it on a napkin, 
 then advanced to me and pinned it in. 
 
 Count: "How awkward and badly placed it is. I feel 
 like putting it in myself. I have taste, you see." 
 
 Richard: "You better not try, Gustave; you'll muss 
 her hair. It is safe there; its color is quite effective." 
 
 Mile.: "I'm ready now, I must go to my aunt." 
 
 Count: "Wait, Mademoiselle; we have to drink your 
 health and many returns." 
 
 Mile.: "We have done so, just as you rang the door 
 bell." 
 
 Count: "Then I must have it drank again." With a 
 more steady hand he refilled the standing glasses with the 
 liquor, placing one in front of me." 
 
 Richard: "That's too strong for Mademoiselle. She 
 can have no more now; one never knows the first eff'ects of 
 strong drink." 
 
 Mile.: "M. Richard is right. I'll take a little of the 
 vin ordinaire; but very little, as I have not yet acquired 
 the taste for dry wines." 
 
 We all held up our glasses for the Count's toast, who 
 said, "To sweet sixteen, is it not?" 
 
 Mile. : "Not quite so childish an age. Monsieur," I 
 smiled; bending my head sideways, giving him a mis- 
 chievous look. 
 
 To the surprise of all he said sharply: "My God!" 
 (A French exclamation). "Don't look at me that way, 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 I looked down, sobered with mortification at his words 
 and started movement. He had spilled a drop of wine also. 
 Then hanging his head he said softly, "A thousand par- 
 dons, Mademoiselle. You have beautiful eyes, but you 
 don't know the danger that lies in them. I'm sorry T for- 
 
 [9] 
 
got myself so far. I am tired out and nervous, I find. I've 
 had a hard day." He had been at a review. 
 
 Richard: "Is it that the spirits mount?" 
 
 Count: ''No, no, I have not tasted wine today, you 
 know I intended coming here. But I'll drink our toast to 
 —what is it?" 
 
 Mile.: ''A year's more experience and wisdom." 
 
 Count: "Then to sweet 17 and may there be 70." We 
 all drank and I started for the door. 
 
 Count: "Mademoiselle, do you know what seats your 
 aunt has in the House?" 
 
 Mile. : "No, but she feared they would be crowded, 
 and some gentleman would have to give up his seat to her." 
 
 Count: "Then it's a box, I'll be there, but late, as I 
 can not alarm your Aunt with these togs." (Motions to 
 himself.) "I must be humble and change to civilian. If 
 Victor has left the Hotel I'll be hampered, but I'll be there. 
 Please say nothing but expect me." 
 
 I left for above stairs, he lingered for a word with M. 
 Richard, I heard him leave as I met Aunt at our door, I 
 hastened on my wraps and we were off. 
 
 [10] 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 At The Opera 
 
 There was room and I was given a place in front of an 
 old gentleman. The lady who rented the box sat beside me, 
 and Aunt just behind her. A lady also sat way back, 
 keeping out of sight most of the time. At about the 
 middle of the play, Aunt directed my attention to a box a 
 little apart from the center boxes; we were on one side. 
 She said, "That man looks this way so often, turn your 
 back a little more toward me and shut off his view some- 
 what." I did not look to where she had said the man was, 
 but I felt sure it was the Count. 
 
 When the intermission came a few minutes after, some 
 gentlemen entered the box. One, an elderly, white haired 
 gentleman, shook hands with the lady and my Aunt, and 
 then I was introduced, but we did not shake hands. He 
 turned toward his young companion and introduced the 
 Count to us all in the same order. The Count said he 
 knew me and had wanted to know my Aunt. He kept all 
 his attention and talk for her. He did not seem to see me 
 at all, but I thought that quite right. I knew she was 
 worthy of his steel and quite awake at guarding me. Her 
 remark to me when we arrived home was, "He is danger- 
 ous for he is in earnest. Now be most careful, my dear; 
 think of your parents' wishes for you." 
 
 [11] 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Unfortunate Lie 
 
 M. Richard had his own apartments cleaned yearly as 
 needed. The cleaning of his room Vv^as in order. The 
 thing-s were placed anywhere handy and covered with a 
 cloth against dust. Mme. Joffret was busy at this work 
 when my Aunt took sick with a fainting and the grippe, 
 that is so common in Paris, that even the cats and dogs 
 have it. It is said to have come from Russia. It rained 
 that morning when the walk to school was undertaken. 
 The Bonne insisting on accompanying me as usual. I was 
 telling her I preferred she let me go alone, as under the 
 protection of the umbrella I would be hidden and safe, not 
 anyone being anxious to be out in the rain if idle and open 
 to mischief; and as Mme. Joffret was not available she 
 might be needed at home. We were so occupied with our 
 controversy that we did not notice that we were passing 
 a large City Club and men as usual were at the windows 
 looking out into the rain. By one of those strange Provi- 
 dences I so much object to in written romance, coming so 
 pat at needed moments, we stopped and parted right in 
 front of the Club, she 'giving me the umbrella and turning 
 without one for home, while I went on my way loaded with 
 books, luncheon and umbrella. She saw but I did not, the 
 Count putting on his hat, run down the club's stone steps, 
 and overtake me. I heard no footsteps; his were light and 
 the umbrella was so well down, that I could hardly see. 
 Near the curb my umbrella was firmly pushed aside a 
 little, and the Count's face appeared with, "Let me carry 
 your books, I pray you." 
 
 "No! no!" I said. It must have been the slight straight- 
 ening of the ferrule now needed, that caused the middle of 
 the load of books tb bulge forward and fall to the wet 
 ground, the top ones fell also but were caught by his 
 dextrous hands. I begged him to return them to me after 
 he had also rescued the fallen ones. Knowing no French 
 gentleman would let me pick them up I did not even try 
 to do so, but holding out my arm to receive them with the 
 only safe one in my hand, I begged their return. 
 
 [12] 
 
Count: "Let me do you a service. They'll only fall 
 ag'ain and get spoiled. Be reasonable and g'ood!" (In 
 French "gentille.") 
 
 Mile. : "I consented with 'alors/ " meaning, well then. 
 
 We arrived at the school yard door in the high brick 
 wall. I rang, the latch was raised and the door opened 
 with a spring-. It opened inwardly, and to keep it open I 
 put my foot against it. I closed my umbrella and was 
 given the books with a bow and acknowledgment of the 
 pleasure I'd given. I said nothing, being very angry at my 
 misfortune of the morning. 
 
 Whoever lifted the latch had to look out to see who had 
 entered and if it was all right. This morning, instead of 
 the usual caretaker, it was a young teacher, daughter of 
 the head Professor, who stayed at the window while the 
 Count with a laugh raised his hat to her also. 
 
 I ascended the outer steps and entered the hall door. 
 The teacher met me hurriedly and asked, "Who is that 
 young man, Lucie?" 
 
 I lied promptly, not wanting to explain, "He is my 
 Uncle." 
 
 "But he is French." 
 
 "Yes, my Uncle is French." 
 
 [13] 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 The Crucifix. 
 
 The workmen gone, I resumed my interrupted visits. 
 I found M. Richard mending an ivory and ebony crucifix 
 that had been thrown down, a workman catching in the 
 cloth covering. He told me he valued it above all his 
 things, because it was the only thing of value his bene- 
 factor and confessor had left to the world and he had de- 
 sired it given to his protege. "His interest in me," he said, 
 "was so well known that his Vicar had carried out his 
 wishes. So self-denying and charitable had he been that 
 his seamstress had complained he wore his clothes so long 
 and they had to be so much repaired that she dreaded their 
 return to her hands. This was reported to him in the 
 effort to make him more generous to himself. He re- 
 marked that he had thought she needed the work and lib- 
 eral pay. It was her need and pride he studied and not 
 his own, but he stood corrected for the future. This is of 
 his charity, now let me tell you of his wisdom. 
 
 "The first time I saw this crucifix, a present the old 
 Count brought from Rome, he brought it for me to see. 
 'Father, you have said to me in my rebellion "It is God's 
 will!" and shall the clay say to the potter "Why formest 
 Thou one so?" but this is His Son whom he has let suffer 
 and that Son asked, "Why hast Thou forsaken me?" Is it 
 that Our Father is cruel?' 'Child, there are things even 
 Angels have to study. I can not tell mysteries to you, for 
 you have so much time to lie and think you can not close 
 the door of your reason. Let's see how much you can per- 
 ceive, even understand. You know God's object in Creation 
 was a Heaven of loving subjects, from choice of their own. 
 A free choice at first so that it is said He walked and 
 talked and His Grace was ever present with them. He 
 gave them a developing reason and Spiritual nature. He 
 put before them the ways of Life, to chose the Love of 
 Goodness belonging to Him and be with Him in orderly 
 life and happiness, or the Love of self and the evils belong- 
 ing to the love of self, disorder and sorrow, turning from 
 the love of the Creator, who never interferes with that free 
 willed choice, which is the very essence of man his free 
 will. 
 
 [14] 
 
" 'Evil on the contrary destroys that Libre Arbitre (free 
 choice), for evil is a tyrant and destroyer. There's no 
 Devil God, but evil has grown to such power in the ages 
 from man to man, just as the spirits cast into the swine 
 said, *Ve are Legion for we are many." Developments not 
 yet in perfection have disorders of their own as they de- 
 velop in nature; that is of God. There is therefore better- 
 ment and regeneration for the Earth, and men are in pro- 
 cess of forming their souls, their individuality. There is 
 hope for all men and all things. But a time once came 
 when men had become so selfish and wicked that hope was 
 nearly lost, and as our poets said: "Man's inhumanity to 
 man made high Angels weep." The still voice of Con- 
 science, the aid of our Guardian Angels, was almost de- 
 stroyed also. God's works are ever before Him. He said : 
 "I looked for rescue and there was none"; again, "I bowed 
 down the Heavens." He came as man to man, veiled His 
 majesty in our human nature and form, and as you say in 
 the Angelus, "The word became flesh and dwelt among us." 
 No man had or could see the Father at any time, but in the 
 Emanuel He had been brought to view. "Who seeth me 
 seeth the Father for I and the Father are one." His com- 
 ing was a Divine process that had many meanings above 
 your comprehension. One was to be an example that man 
 could live the life He asked, and He would be with him in 
 that effort, by His spirit the Comfortor the Holy Ghost; 
 man would not be forsaken ! His freedom of choice, in his 
 heart, to do well, would not be destroyed by the power of 
 evil. 
 
 " 'He had the Hells of Evil spirits to conquer and put in 
 subjection. He had to fulfill the Laws, to carry out the 
 Golden Rule before the eyes of man. To show His life 
 faithful to all of this, He had to be faithful unto death, as 
 also man must be. The work must be finished, and with 
 Him, a God, it must be a perfect work. His cry in death 
 was the cry of the Son of man, as well as the Son of God; 
 of His human nature assailed by all the combined powers 
 of Evil, from which fearful assault His coming and His 
 death has served man. He said : "The Father within me 
 doeth the works." The Father was within him in death 
 and had not forsaken Him. His wisdom knew the whole 
 need and the perfect work was done by a God of Love and 
 Wisdom. It needs never to be done again; as He said: 
 "It is finished," no one can add to that. 
 
 " 'Now we have not a dead and gone God, we have a 
 Risen God; a Redeemer, whose rising you praise on the 
 Easter Sundays; a Risen Christ, whose very body was 
 made Divine, for He said: "A Spirit hath not flesh and 
 blood as I have," and He made the doubting Thomas feel 
 of Him. That something we are not given to understand 
 must have been necessary to that Divine Body is shown by 
 his forbidding Mary at the tomb to touch Him. He said: 
 
 [15] 
 
"For I have not yet ascended to my Father." All was not 
 yet Divine, or He does not want us to approach Him in 
 His imperfection, for He spoke no light words. 
 
 " 'Personally, with submission to my superiors, I think 
 we should have more paintings of Our Saviour in this 
 glorious ascension as well as in His Crucifixion, — the work 
 done and the result therefrom. In your prayers of thank- 
 fulness for a blessing or a peace, or a resistance of tempta- 
 tion, raise your spirit to Him in His Glory and see Him 
 as the Angels do, and as you also will see Him when you 
 enter into your reward in His Kingdom.' " 
 
 Mile.: "I thank you for giving me His explanations 
 adapted to the mind of an intelligent child. You must 
 have understood or you could not have given it to me so 
 simply. The very word 'mystery' always raised an unrea- 
 soned rebellion against the ignorance or the slight effort 
 given for my enlightenment. My mother had a habit of 
 saying to me, "Do as I bid you now, I'm too busy"; or, "I 
 have no time to give you any reasons." I submitted with 
 grace for I knew at the proper time the reasons would be 
 given. But not so with my confessor. It was authority 
 exercised and humility demanded. He did not so fully obey 
 the command, "Feed my lambs," as did my Mother. Also 
 the simple cross is my more favored image. I even took the 
 tarnished figure off the cross now over my bed, and put it 
 carefully away one Good Friday. My Aunt thought it a 
 sacrilege, but it must have been less so than the dislike I 
 had for the old metal image. I think we become too 
 familiar with His suffering and a little indifferent. I'm 
 sure it makes some morbid. 
 
 "I'm sure it has had some effect on Mme. Joffret, for 
 she said the longest prayers at the tombs with the wax 
 Christ, we saw in visiting our Churches. It seemed as 
 if she said the whole of the service for the dead, although 
 I stood waiting for her, but maybe she didn't see me. So 
 one day I 'was not surprised at her conduct. We were 
 going to cross a bridge and there was a crowd of people 
 near a little stone building. I asked what interested the 
 crowd, as she had stopped and was also interested. She 
 said it was perhaps a new corpse. I asked, 'What is in 
 that building where they are going in and out?' She 
 said that it was the morgue, and she wanted to see the 
 new find too. I said I did not, that I had no desire to 
 go into a morgue. 'Very good, I can't leave you out- 
 side, and I mean to go in,' so as she was always kind I 
 went in with her. There were glass partitions with forms 
 on slabs. A few faces were uncovered and a lot of clothes 
 hung on nails at the sides of the glass cases. I asked, 
 'What are they there for?' 'Oh! to be seen by anybody 
 who knows them; they belong to those who had to be 
 buried.' I said, 'It's wet inside there.' And she said, 
 'That's the melting ice.' I said, 'Let's go,' but she ob- 
 
 [16] 
 
jected, she had to say some prayers for their souls, poor 
 things. She never passed the morgue without seeing and 
 praying for those in it. I think she's morbid, for she also 
 kisses her crucifix too much." 
 
 Richard: ''Mademoiselle, if you only know how many 
 dead she has laid out for their friends in her life, you'd 
 understand her. No two people have the same experi- 
 ences or think alike. You seem to be like those Egyptians 
 who chased the useful attendants of the dead, those who 
 did the most needed work and removed the interior or- 
 gans. The church does not encourage morbidness, but I 
 know from an experience I'll tell you how willful and ob- 
 stinate my people are in any ideas they cherish. Our 
 youngest sister, Marie, is the example I have in mind. She 
 had to be disciplined by my benefactor, our Saintly Cu- 
 rate. 
 
 "A stone was uncovered in the workings of a quarry on 
 the St. Jean estate, with curious markings, resembling a 
 virgin with a child in her arms. Some old men claimed 
 there'd been a chapel there before the Revolution and it 
 was undoubtedly her seal. It was consecrated ground. 
 All work stopped, and the Curate, seeing the excitement, 
 sent for the Vicar, who came with some priests. They 
 examined and listened to the villagers. Then they went 
 to the Archbishop of Coutance, an old man, who was put 
 to the inconvenience of travel in his coach. He brought 
 some geologists with him who said it was a fine specimen 
 of common origin. People had come from far and near 
 and had worn the stone away so badly that to show it 
 a wet cloth had to be gotten from the washerwoman at 
 the stream below. Everyone was forbidden to pray to it, 
 as it was not to be blessed. I was ill just before the 
 stone was found, and Marie was among the first, relying 
 on her name, to pray for me there. I had heard the band 
 playing while the Archbishop dined. My confessor was 
 too busy with the church guests to come to me. I was 
 wild to have a miracle performed on me. The excite- 
 ment of my desire caused me to forget all my ills and 
 in the night try to get up. I succeeded in getting out of 
 bed but mother came in and put me back again. I had 
 performed a marvel, it seems. Marie told everyone it 
 was an answer to her prayers. She insisted against their 
 verdict. Satan had deveived them. They didn't know, 
 she'd say. All the village encouraged her. The Vicar 
 had not only to preach but to visit the most obstinate. 
 The fact that I had moved caused a collection to be taken 
 up to get a surgeon from Paris, from whom I derived 
 great benefit, but who diagnosed the case and said there 
 could be no cure. Marie persisted, and the Curate refused 
 her confession if she would not accept the decision of 
 both the learned and the church. She walked a long way 
 to another village to confess, and the Curate denounced 
 
 [17] 
 
her from the altar. Thus are the French faithful to an 
 idea, and slow to change. 
 
 "This experience showed me the necessity of the priest- 
 hood, the control by a body of trained intelligence pre- 
 pared not only to teach truths, but to enforce order under 
 them; — That 'the powers that be are ordained of God.' 
 Marie learned her lesson. She is still living with her hus- 
 band in Marseilles. He and our eldest brother ran off to 
 sea. He came back to tell of that brother's death at sea, 
 married and took Marie away with him. It is from him 
 I get the cognac brandy and the vanilla beans; also other 
 gifts he can get to me. 
 
 "Julie married Joffret soon after. When my mother 
 caught pneumonia and died, the Cure set to work to find 
 me a home, as only a child a little older than I was left 
 to be company to my old father, who was mother and 
 father. both in one. Before arrangements were completed 
 for me to learn the metal embroideries, he, too, was called 
 home. He felt the end was coming and wrote to the 
 Count and Countess in Paris, to see that the arrange- 
 ments were carried out, as in his estimation they owed 
 me great concern for my injury. His letter puzzled them, 
 but they thought he was having his mind affected by 
 his illness and austerities of life — the closing of that 
 natural memory that is so often evident before death. 
 This seemed the more so as he enclosed a poor fifty cent 
 ring the Countess had given him in their childhood, to 
 remind her that he counted upon her remembrance of 
 that time to accept his request of my charge. Gustave 
 learned of that letter and ring, when after her death he 
 went through her effects. A fifty cent gift amused him 
 much, and he had to tell us of such strange care of a 
 trifle. 
 
 "The Count outlived all our elders, being over eighty- 
 seven years old when he died. He is gone over two years, 
 but Gustave never went back to the old home. I think 
 he will go when he takes a Chatelaine with him and makes 
 it home-like once more." 
 
 [18] 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 My NemcHiH 
 
 After the opera the Count called to inquire of our 
 safety home and enjoyment of the talent. I, however, 
 was not sent for, though he inquired what I thought of 
 the star soprano. He felt he must go slowly so waited 
 the New Year, only two weeks oif , to send the usual gifts 
 to friends called "etrennes." Then came a large "Pate 
 de Foies Gras" (liver pie), and a full blooming shrub 
 of Camellias in a pot, with only a picture card of Bonne 
 Anne tied to it. My aunt's pie had within the wrapper 
 his personal card, with best wishes for the New Year. 
 My aunt was so greedy that she kept the pie and there- 
 fore the shrub. She made suitable acknowledgment. 
 
 Having inquired below stairs if I were in, he called 
 again. This time he asked boldly for me, and was told 
 I was too busy with studies, had begged not to be dis- 
 turbed, and would he call at a more opportune time? 
 Here I may say that aunt knew nothing of the carrying 
 of the books to school, and the Count, guessing that, said 
 he'd not seen me in weeks. But that information was 
 coming to her that same day. 
 
 Just a little after the holidays there had been a col- 
 lection taken up to buy that teacher, still curious about 
 the Count, a silk dress for her birthday. Her mother 
 had suggested her want of one, and would see to it for us. 
 
 When it was sent home she promptly called upon aunt 
 in it, who sent for me to meet my teacher in the "salon." 
 When I entered I saw the two ladies standing in front of 
 and looking at my uncle's oil. 
 
 Without a greeting of good day, the teacher said, 
 "Lucie, this is your uncle; your aunt says you have none 
 other in France. Who was the young man who brought 
 you to school and gave you your books?" Looking only 
 at aunt I answered, "It was the Count, auntie." Aunt 
 then said to her, "Our landlord. She has met him here 
 and at the opera with me. Why she lied about it, I can't 
 imagine. I'm glad you told me about it. It was uncalled 
 for to you. I am sorry she treated you so." I hung my 
 head and left the room. 
 
 [19] 
 
Aunt had to tell my friends about the lie. They 
 made all possible excuses because she said no more to 
 me, and did not forbid my continuing my visits there, 
 
 I felt I must see my friends about my lie. I entered, 
 saying-, "I'm desolate, I am ashamed of myself that I 
 could lie so easily and forget it. It seems to me looking 
 back that my lie flew like lightning; indeed it was a light- 
 ning of evil from those evil spirits that must infest my 
 heart. My Guardian Angel must have lost power, I fear, 
 long before, it was so natural! I am alarmed when I think 
 of myself, I changed my prayer to, 'Leave me not in 
 temptation/ for I was so left. I have read that we must 
 be tempted in order to win, and to strengthen by exercise 
 those qualities which must rule, I've also read that that 
 is a wrong translation, but I have paid no attention to that 
 authority. I have also added to my prayer of 'Our Father,' 
 the Protestant ending of 'Thine is the Kingdom, the 
 Power and the Glory, Amen.' Do you think I am doing 
 wrong? For I felt I could realize more easily the Glory 
 of my Savior when I asked His strength for me; also to 
 rise in my repentance to that resurrection and see Him 
 as the angels do. 
 
 "Because a thing is used by others does not make it 
 wrong, my dear friend. As to the translation, I am 
 no scholar; but if you need that help you've a right to 
 ask for it. As to our forms of prayer and even teach- 
 ings, their authority is not like money pieces, just so, 
 stamped and counted out. They are more like the cut 
 diamond, have many faces, and the light of God's truth 
 is seen from our different angles. The church gives pre- 
 cious stones to her children. You have cause to fear, for 
 St. Paul says we must work out our salvation in fear 
 and trembling. Remember, my dear friend, we are helping 
 Him to expand His Glory and power by every good act 
 we do and strengthen the evil powers by an opposite ac- 
 tion, like drops of water, each wears away the stone of 
 our resistance and unfits it for God's Temple. We are 
 immortal; there's nothing light about that, and for every 
 word our souls shall give account. There's also more 
 rejoicing in the repentance of a sinner." 
 
 Mme. Joffret here said: "Poor dear! I have scolded 
 Gustave for so embarrassing you that you had to satisfy 
 the teacher's curiosity by claiming relationship. It's all 
 his fault." And so I was comforted by Richard and Mme. 
 Joffret. 
 
 [20] 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 The Evasion 
 
 Speaking of angels one hears their wings, and so now 
 the ring of the Count, and thereafter his cheerful entrance 
 arrayed for conquest, this time, as it turned out from his 
 first words after his greeting. ''Oh! I'm a happy boy. 
 You've honored me by a relationship I did not forsee, m 
 my desire to be something nearer. Now if you are not 
 amiable to me I'll get an introduction to the appreciative 
 lady, and let her capture me. What do you think of 
 that, Mademoiselle?" , , ■ ^ 
 
 At another time I could have countered his banter, 
 but the seriousness of our previous subiect left me sensi- 
 tive. I went straight to M. Richard's chair, put my 
 hand on his shoulder, and said m a peeved tone, ''Make 
 him stop teasing me about that." , i i ■■ 
 
 Richard, taking down my hand into his two and hold- 
 ing it, said, "In his present mood, no one can do that but 
 you Mademoiselle. You'll find him wax in your hands. 
 
 Count: "Most certainly I'll do anything and every- 
 thing to please you, if you'll only be as kind to me as you 
 are to Richard. I'm hungry for kindness, yours above all, 
 Mademoiselle ; give me hope that you'll be ma bonne Amie 
 (my sweetheart), and at your pleasure my fiancee. 
 
 Mile.: "But I have no desire to be the fiancee of a 
 Frenchman." 
 
 Both (Simultaneously) : "Why?" 
 
 Mile.: "Because the French are conscripted, always 
 in that bondage. I don't love the sword!" 
 
 Count: "Mademoiselle, the sword is peace to France. 
 She must be always prepared for her enemies or suffer. 
 I've found you very patriotic. America is much to you. 
 The same here for Frenchmen," and he broke into the last 
 lines of the song, "To Die for -My Country is Most to Be 
 Desired." ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Richard had already released by hand, so the Count 
 took it, saying, "Who is teasing now, and more cruelly, 
 too, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 I withdrew my hand firmly but quietly. ^ He made no 
 great resistance but his eyes opened more widely. 
 
 .[21] 
 
Count: "Are you in earnest? Is that the reason? I 
 felt you had something against me; can it be that? I 
 thought it was something I could remove, but I fear I 
 have not the power to remove such objection. With me 
 must be that trinity you spoke of on your birthday — 
 church, wife and country. Must I withdraw my pre- 
 tensions?" And he approached me. I put my hand on 
 Richard's shoulder again and was silent, looking down 
 at Richard's hands in his lap. He looked up at me. The 
 Count stood a few minutes looking at us puzzled, then 
 drew up his full height, clicked his heels, made a bow, 
 turned on his heel and marched out of the room, head 
 up, the picture of military training. Mme. Joffret fol- 
 lowed to wait upon him. 
 
 When they were out of sight, I laid my cheek upon 
 Richard's head and said, "But I do think it brave to die 
 for one's country." 
 
 "It is a mistake then? I thought so, call him back, 
 he'll come." And he called, "Gustave! Julie!" 
 
 Only Mme. Joffret answered, "Well," and hurried the 
 soldier off. 
 
 Entering, she questioned, "Well, what?" 
 
 Richard: "She says she loves a patriot. It must be 
 something else. I don't understand why she weeps." 
 
 Mme. : "I do, it is instinct, which she does not feel 
 toward him, as you see. She cares not for him but for 
 you." 
 
 Richard: "But I must never love, never have a sweet- 
 heart — you know that. Mademoiselle. It is the will of 
 God. I have long known it. Be kind to him who has 
 never been denied before. He is honorable and earnest. 
 Think things well over, and allow me to write to him 
 what you have said to me, and the conversation we were 
 having." And he bowed his head on his hand, the elbow 
 on the arm of the chair, needing quiet. 
 
 Mme. Joffret took my hand, leading me from the 
 room, saying, "I would speak with you in my room, dear- 
 est Mademoiselle." 
 
 She sat me down in her big chair and she sat on a 
 trunk in front of me. She was much excited. She asked, 
 "If M. Richard had wealth and position, the power and 
 glory of the world, as Gustave has, would you marry 
 him for his love and companionship?" 
 
 "What's the use of asking that," I temporized. "He 
 doesn't have them." 
 
 "Yes, but if it were possible, as I know it is possible, 
 would you?" I hung my head silent; a thought came into 
 my mind — she knows something, give her chance. She 
 continued, "Gustave can console himself, but Richard 
 never. I can't bear to see Gustave get everything. They 
 could divide; there's enough for both." And she mum- 
 bled to herself. 
 
 [22] 
 
Mile,: "Speak out, my friend, don't you want me to 
 write to Gustave." 
 
 Mme. : "No! No! Don't write. I can rob no more." 
 
 Mile.: "Tell me plainly what you know, what you 
 want of me. Trust me. It will give you peace. If you 
 know of a wrong- done, right it here on earth. It will 
 help God, as M. Richard said; you heard him." 
 
 Mme.: "Death has released my vow. I was tempted 
 to tell all when the Countess died; that was the time 
 set. I waited to see if Gustave would do rightly by Rich- 
 ard. I never thought of love until your aunt spoke of 
 your parents. She said that Americans did not have to 
 have parental consent after they were of age. You could 
 choose your fate. I did all I could to prevent love; but 
 as Gustave said himself, he was hungry for love, and so 
 was Richard, and you were so lovable, Mademoiselle, so 
 lovable and wise." 
 
 Mile. : "Yes, yes, my friend, you've been so good to 
 me, trust my gratitude. Let me share your trouble, your 
 secret, I think." 
 
 Mme.: "Oh! me, I've said too much, I must tell you 
 all and let you decide for me. You'll know what is best. 
 You know how things are now, Mademoiselle, I told you 
 I let M. Richard fall. But he was not Richard. He was 
 the true and only Gustave St. Jean. It was much farther 
 than the church to get a doctor, so Marie was sent for 
 the Cure, who, from the first, saw despair. The Count 
 and his wife were on the way home from travel for her 
 health; there were no other heirs. The mother talked 
 things over, and my parents agreed to exchange infants. 
 Then we took a vow, on the crucifix, and that's why I 
 kiss it so — it was a part of the vow to me. We took the 
 vow of secrecy until the death of either the Count or the 
 Countess. The one old, the other delicate; no long lives 
 we thought them. The mother assumed support and all 
 expense of the child we thought would die. Then the 
 mother died first, and we were all afraid to tell. Her 
 death was not in the pact, I was not at home but was 
 married, and so was Marie. She wrote, 'Wait and see 
 how they act. Keep quiet.' You instinctively felt that 
 my own brother was an imposter; you were so different 
 toward him. I thought God would prevent all of this 
 that has happened." 
 
 Mile, : "You and I are not wise. You are released 
 from your vow; all are dead who could fret. Think of 
 the deceit of years and relieve your soul. Tell all to M. 
 Richard, I know he'll be wise," 
 
 I put my arms around her shoulders, kissed her and 
 drew her with me, resisting slightly when I said, "You 
 must, my friend, it is but right." I opened the door. 
 Richard, still head in hand, looked up at me. Mme. stood 
 rooted to the ground in a tremble. 
 
 [23] 
 
Mile.: "My friend, call her in, she has a secret to 
 tell you. I said you'd act wisely." 
 
 Richard: "Enter, my dear Julie, for I have been long 
 expecting your secret. I have prayed for it; not to profit 
 by it, but to know. This doubt was tempting me now, 
 while you were out. Tell me all I'll do rightly by you 
 and yours." He motioned her to him, put his arm 
 around her shoulder and smiled up at her and said, "So 
 I am Gustave. Tell me all." She turned to be seated 
 and he seized her hand and kissed it, the first French- 
 man I'd seen kiss a hand since I had come to France. No 
 one kissed my aunt's or mine. Mme. Joffret sometimes 
 kissed me on my forehead. She told her story. 
 
 Richard: "The hours I've studied over this are ended. 
 The fact that you always used a handle to my name be- 
 cause I was so old-fashioned, didn't satisfy me; then 
 there were my long slim hands and filbert shaped nails 
 like the hands of the old Count. I will write it all out 
 for Gustave to receive at my death, and you will both 
 sign it. A notary need not know of the contents but will 
 witness your signatures, so if by any chance anything 
 should ever come to light, my will and testament will 
 give legal right to our brother. If you or Marie die be- 
 fore me I'll give it to Gustave to open at my death. 
 Thank you both for trusting me. The memory of it will be 
 sweet to me. Let us all be content. Mademoiselle. With 
 you the secret is buried." 
 
 [24] 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Judgment 
 
 "Dear Sister, do not sorrow over the past. *L-et the 
 dead bury the dead.' Think of your reparation, the satis- 
 faction you've given to me, and be cheerful. You know, 
 'The Lord loveth a cheerful countenance.' As to my poor 
 body, why our bodies are but like the chestnut's burr; 
 it opens to decay, while the nut escapes. The sweet kernel 
 is still protected by a hard shell with its soft lining — the 
 outward material memory of the 'Earth Life,' which, 
 though immortal, partakes of its corruptions, and as the 
 apostle said, 'Corruption cannot enter in corruption.' Its 
 work being completed it is not wanted in a spiritual world 
 of uses. It has to be opened and judged; it is our book of 
 life — our diary of every word for which we must give 
 account — the acts that helped to guard and form the ker- 
 nel, to make it perfect or to dwarf it, to let in the weevil 
 and the maggot, the evils that injure the soul. The hard 
 protecting knowledges, the truths we learned, are as in 
 this shell. It has a soft lining of kindly thoughts and 
 warnings in temptations of our guardian angels. They 
 have fulfilled their office and are with us no more. The 
 animus, the moving Love of the Soul,, the individuality 
 formed daring the Earthly Life, is all that counts now, 
 for the Lord Judge closes this memory, this book of Earth 
 Life, wipes away every tear; and stains of scarlet. He 
 makes white as snow. He makes perfection through the 
 law of "to those that have much, much shall be given," 
 and to "those that have little, even that little shall be 
 taken away." Every soul received the penny for their 
 day's work. Duty done receives according to the love 
 therein. Duty neglected, love rejected, all like the youth 
 who kept. the commands but could not deny self to attain 
 to love. Dives is not accused of any broken commands, 
 only of selfishness, in that "he took his ease" and forgot 
 the possibilities of development in the mind of the one 
 denied and made a beggar, by man-made economic forces. 
 We know their states as told. Let us rejoice that all that 
 ceased on earth. The rags that clothed our bodies, the 
 diamonds that bought consent to sin, the cheated wage or 
 at chance, the hoarded wealth, like fairy gold, have turned 
 
 [25] 
 
to their true value. 'What does it profit a man to g-ain 
 the whole world and lose his own soul.' Let's hasten to 
 repent, for 'His tender mercies are over all His works.' 
 'His mercy endureth forever.' " 
 
 [2G] 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Sequel 
 
 For unpremeditated sin, Providence often keeps us 
 from seeing the results to others and ourselves. It is 
 not in our pov^er to command the good or prevent the 
 evil so that even sin with good intent is forbidden us, 
 and Hell is said to be paved with good intentions. 
 
 My unpremeditated lie, to deceive the teacher and cut 
 off a long, catechising was more far-reaching than any 
 one would foresee. The way the Count took it and the 
 issue has been told; the way my aunt acted was a sur- 
 prise to me. 
 
 Leaving my friends, I took with me M. Richard's 
 parable of the chestnut and the mental world, and from 
 it felt a duty to my aunt. -Kissing her I said: "I fear 
 I am a great trial to you with my impulsive thoughtless- 
 ness. I have just offended the Count and refused him. 
 I have the consolation of being a friend to M. Richard 
 and have been the means of doing him a service, which 
 he wishes to be kept secret so he will thereby have sole 
 control of it. I have promised to keep this secret as it 
 concerns himself." 
 
 My aunt kindly said, "That is well, but Lucie, you 
 have done wrong and told a most foolish untruth. It 
 seems to me much easier to have said: 'That gentleman 
 was a friend or acquaintance of my aunt.' That would 
 have satisfied her, as she could not expect an introduction 
 to an acquaintance. When you saw she had seen the 
 gentleman with you, you must have thought out how you 
 would account for him. I will have to move away. The 
 Count will not like the chance of meeting you, and I can- 
 not harm that dear cripple by keeping his only friend 
 away. I have been years in this house. I doubt if in all 
 Paris there's another house, except of course a Palace 
 or Private Hotel, with a garden. Way out here in Chausse 
 Clignan Court, they are crowding buildings. The Count 
 wanted this small garden, or this also would have been 
 sold. It is a good thing, my friend, Mme. V. is leaving 
 Paris, I will take her apartment in Rue Blue. It is not 
 so airy nor so large, but more central. This is far out 
 for my friends to visit me." 
 
 [27] 
 
My aunt was a woman of quick decisions, her imag-ina- 
 tion and foresight true and commonsensed. She was most 
 considerate, and placed M. Richard under no oblig'ation of 
 thanks to her, but in a business way gave her notice. He 
 as agent reported to the Count as usual. 
 
 All mail was delivered to Mme. Joffret. On coming- 
 in a few days later she was delayed while the "Bonne" 
 went on. When the upper door closed she said, *'A letter 
 I did not take up but kept for you. It is in the Count's 
 hand." I thanked her, saying I was glad the lines of my 
 life were so entirely in my own hands, and I hastened to 
 read it in my room. 
 
 After the opening- salutations it said that he was 
 sorry to lose my aunt, so long a tenant of his, and was 
 g-lad of the friendship his foster brother had enjoyed, 
 hoped that it would continue, even now that it was not 
 so easy to visit him. 
 
 M. Richard had thought it best to tell him that I 
 did not mean what I said of Frenchmen, but I loved not 
 the sword. He could imagine this natural in a young 
 lady, who hoped with Scripture that the sword would be 
 made into plough shares; v/hen the poor would no longer 
 be with us, but everyone live under the shade of his own 
 olive and fig tree. We all prayed for this in our "Pater 
 Noster," but this good time was to be when "all things 
 were made new." In the .mean time, France was so 
 placed that any day might see her invaded. 
 
 He had been so stunned and hurt at my words that 
 he now felt he had not shown me proper delicate patience, 
 and to end his self reproaches, being sure under my in- 
 fluence he would become all I or his lost sainted mother 
 would wish, he presented his proposal for the sacrament 
 of marriage, and begged a kind and early reply, etc., etc. 
 
 The tone of the letter called upon my better nature. I 
 was in doubt of myself; the lie had rang so spontaneously 
 at the test, whereas truth, if in me, would have given in- 
 stant response. My worldly aunt had answered with the 
 truth. M. Richard even thought it duty to prevent evil 
 or wrong being done that good might come. I could not 
 go to either, now a new test was upon me; for I did not 
 mean to tell the Count or anyone the truth of my change 
 of feeling toward him; because he had offended me by 
 his reprimand on the mischievous expression of my eyes, 
 when I bantered about my age. I had often made re- 
 partee funny grimaces and done my best to tease, with- 
 out remark. It must have been that my more mature 
 coiffure stole from me my child's indulgence. I said to 
 myself, "The truth must not be spoken at all times. How- 
 ever, I must do rightly. I need advice, I'll go to the only 
 place I can go without chaperonage, for Confession, In- 
 struction and Strength of will." 
 
 [28] 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Advice 
 
 Daughter, you've come to the source destined for men. 
 The church is militant because she fights evil, and teaches 
 we must make the g'ood fight and iDear our Cross to be 
 the loved children of God. You've learned of confession, 
 that contrition is not enough. There must be repentance, 
 evil must be conquered. You must not ask that the 
 temptation God sees necessary for your spiritual de- 
 velopment shall be remitted; but say. Thy will not mine. 
 You must do your part and say as St. Peter, "Save Lord, 
 or I perish;" or, ''I do believe, help Thou mine unbelief;" 
 and have Faith in His Grace to help, for evil if not en- 
 tertained or tolerated will depart. If you are lukewarm 
 He "will spew you out." If you intend sin you will be 
 condemned. There's always intent more or less in sin, 
 the momentary desire to do bodily or other harm, or in 
 your case to deceive, which may not be premeditated; 
 they are from the evil heart, and this state is ours mostly 
 because of our lives and intentions that have formed 
 such a connection among themselves that they are our 
 true selves, our individuality, our souls. 
 
 To do evil that good may come is sophistry; the poison 
 there, if persevered in, will end in evil intent. It is a 
 direct command "Do not evil that good may come." 
 
 Our martyrs have given examples of the Faith which 
 we must have, as also hope and charity. Love of God and 
 man. Think how much less you are called upon to re- 
 sist, and give God your heart. You have Free Will; you 
 must choose your conduct for yourself. 
 
 Dinner was ready on my return. I thought I had 
 heard that it is wise to sleep over a thing, and make not 
 haste in time of trouble. I sang and played the piano 
 for my aunt, and waited till the morrow to write. 
 
 Upon retiring I prayed as follows : 
 
 Guardian Angels, mark our paths 
 
 And all our ways attend; 
 Inspire our minds with thoughts of God, 
 
 Still ready to befriend, 
 
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Great God, do your good Ang-els wait, 
 
 On one as mean as I? 
 To guide me in my erring state 
 
 And lead my soul on high. 
 
 Oh! gracious Lord, whose Love Divine, 
 
 Such care has shown for me. 
 Grant strength to force my forward heart, 
 
 To be inspired and led by Thee. 
 
 It was a bright morning that awakened me early. I 
 had my reply ready and wrote pretty much as follows : 
 
 M. Le Count St. Jean. 
 
 Dear Friend: 
 
 I admire your letter too much to be able to destroy 
 it, so return it that you may know what has become of 
 it. I thank you for the honor you have done me, and 
 your letter is engraved on my memory as a proof of your 
 merit. But, my dear friend, I find I am not capable of 
 the task you ask of me. I need so much discipline to be 
 good enough and have never had serious thoughts of the 
 blessed sacrament. 
 
 Like the butterfly, I want to enjoy my freedom to 
 make all and everything love me. To have the little tots 
 in the parks come to this stranger and put their dirty 
 hands on my knee, or my aunt's cat to purr in my lap. 
 
 I am too thoroughly selfish to admit what the church 
 teaches me, "That I am made by Love, for Love and to 
 Love." I must for a few years accept all and give nothing. 
 
 I return shortly to my parents to give them the devo- 
 tion and sympathy due them, and my company in return 
 for all they have done for me. I look forward to this duty. 
 
 Think kindly of me as a ship that has passed. 
 
 With sincere respect and good wishes for your future, 
 I sign myself in the intimate name you have always used 
 to address me. 
 
 MLLE. LUCIE, 
 Your American friend. 
 
 The letter went by M. Joffret in his tin cylinder. On 
 moving I gave his wife an English ivy plant, the leaves 
 being useful to her. These ivy leaves were sold in the 
 market in bunches filed on a thread. She took me to a 
 large Fair held on the banks of the Seine near the Column 
 of July. She wanted me to see the produce of her native 
 department. There were cheese and sausage and smoked 
 meats from all over France. She bought some ivy leaves 
 at an herb stand. I asked about their use. She said she 
 paid the penalty of being an old woman; it was for her 
 "Seton," a continued sore kept open by a threaded bead 
 or pea, covered with a leaf, renewed daily. 
 
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CHAPTER XI 
 
 Conclusion 
 
 Frequently men are seen with earrings, believed to 
 strengthen their eyes, and other evidences of the unpro- 
 g-ressive Latins. Non-believers say it was due to their 
 church, which does not encourage education. She is thrown 
 back from her depressive, visualized, crucified Christ, 
 upon the Virgin Mother in her apogee of love, crowned 
 with her infant in her arms, standing upon the Serpent, 
 in all the happiness and glory so necessary for hope and 
 courage to man. 
 
 They err. The church's emphasis is on the Easter, 
 when she puts on her beautiful garments of joy, accord- 
 ing to the Scripture, "Shake thyself from the dust" (dust 
 was a sign of mourning) , ''put on thy beautiful garments. 
 O! Jerusalem, Thou Holy Holy City." Then she calls 
 all to the mass, to partake of the Eucharist under pain 
 of sin, if neglected. 
 
 That men cannot visualize the Risen Redeemer in His 
 glory is because they know they are not fitted with a 
 World War of five years, and unjust taxation for it, on 
 industries and productions and not on tax-free securi- 
 ties and idle lands. So unjust to man! Can they see 
 a just Redeemer, a Prince of Peace? Her leaders say: 
 ''The church cannot go too far ahead of the mass, cannot 
 give strong meat to babes. She must cut and fit the 
 pieces of her mosaic with studied skill, according to the 
 growth of the design; for — 
 
 Thick waters cannot image things. 
 
 Like waters crystal clear. 
 The church can only give her pearls 
 To those will hold them dear. 
 
 The world has not yet realized the Resurrection of the 
 First Advent. Progression is now due. If His Second 
 Advent is to accomplish this work, all churches should 
 co-operate in a broad Catholic endeavor toward it. We 
 must learn to know our Risen Redeemer and Prince of 
 Peace. 
 
 (Finis) 
 
 L. M. ROSS. 
 
 14fi4 Belmont St. 
 Washington, D. C. 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 018 391 565 4 #