early that Aunt Clotilde and the cure and the life they had led, had only aroused in his mind a half-pitying amusement.  It seemed to her that he did not understand and had strange sacrilegious thoughts about them—­he did not believe in miracles—­he smiled when she spoke of saints.  How could she tell him that she wished to spend all her money in building churches and giving alms to the poor?  That was what she wished to tell him—­that she wanted money to send back to the village, that she wanted to give it to the poor people she saw in the streets, to those who lived in the miserable places.

But when she found herself face to face with him and he said some witty thing to her and seemed to find her only amusing, all her courage failed her.  Sometimes she thought she would throw herself upon her knees before him and beg him to send her back to Normandy—­to let her live alone in the chateau as her Aunt Clotilde had done.

One morning she arose very early, and knelt a long time before the little altar she had made for herself in her dressing room.  It was only a table with some black velvet thrown over it, a crucifix, a saintly image, and some flowers standing upon it.  She had put on, when she got up, the quaint black serge robe, because she felt more at home in it, and her heart was full of determination.  The night before she had received a letter from the cure and it had contained sad news.  A fever had broken out in her beloved village, the vines had done badly, there was sickness among the cattle, there was already beginning to be suffering, and if something were not done for the people they would not know how to face the winter.  In the time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont they had always been made comfortable and happy at Christmas.  What was to be done?  The cure ventured to write to Mademoiselle Elizabeth.

[Illustration:  The villagers did not stand in awe of her.]

The poor child had scarcely slept at all.  Her dear village!  Her dear people!  The children would be hungry; the cows would die; there would be no fires to warm those who were old.

“I must go to uncle,” she said, pale and trembling.  “I must ask him to give me money.  I am afraid, but it is right to mortify the spirit.  The martyrs went to the stake.  The holy Saint Elizabeth was ready to endure anything that she might do her duty and help the poor.”

Because she had been called Elizabeth she had thought and read a great deal of the saint whose namesake she was—­the saintly Elizabeth whose husband was so wicked and cruel, and who wished to prevent her from doing good deeds.  And oftenest of all she had read the legend which told that one day as Elizabeth went out with a basket of food to give to the poor and hungry, she had met her savage husband, who had demanded that she should tell him what she was carrying, and when she replied “Roses,” and he tore the cover from the basket to see if she