Of this class was Elsie,—­not Jacqueline.  Elsie was afraid of freedom,—­not equal to it,—­unable to deal with it; satisfied with being a child, with being a slave, when it came to be a question whether she should accept and use her highest privilege and dignity.  At this hour, and among all persuasions, you will find that Elsie does not stand alone.  Little children there are, long as the world shall stand,—­though not precisely such as we think of when we remember, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

It was enough for Elsie—­it is enough for multitudes through all the reformations—­that she had an earthly defence, even such as she relied on without trouble.  She lived in the hour.  She had never toiled to deliver her darling from the lions,—­to redeem a soul from purgatory.  She eased her conscience, when it was troubled, by such shallow discovery of herself as she deemed confession.  She loved dancing, and all other amusements,—­hated solitude, knew not the meaning of self-abnegation.  And let her dance and enjoy herself!—­some service to the body is rendered thereby.  She might do greatly worse, and is incapable of doing greatly better.  Will you stint the idiots of comfort,—­or rather build them decent habitations, and even vex yourself to feed and clothe them, in reverent confidence that the Future shall surely take them up and bless them, unstop their ears, open their eyes, give speech to them and absolute deliverance?

There are others beside Elsie who congratulate themselves on non-committal,—­they covet not the advanced and dangerous positions.  Honorable, but dangerous positions!  The head might be taken off, do you not see?  And could all eternity compensate for the loss of time?  Ah, the body might be mutilated,—­the liberty restrained:  as if, indeed, a man’s freedom were not eternally established, when his enemies, howling around, must at least crucify him! as if a divine voice were not ever heard through the raging of the people, saying, “Come up higher!”

But a fern-leaf cannot grow into a mighty hemlock-tree.  From the ashes of a sparrow the phoenix shall not rise.  You will not to all eternity, by any artificial means, nor by a miracle, bring forth an eagle from a mollusk.

There was not a sadder heart in all those fields of Meaux than the heart of Jacqueline Gabrie.  There was not a stronger heart.  Not a hand labored more diligently.  Under the broad-brimmed peasant-hat was a sad countenance,—­under the peasant-dress a heavily burdened spirit.  Silent, all day, she labored.  She was alone at noon under the river-bordered trees, eating her coarse fare without zest, but with a conscience,—­to sustain the body that was born to toil.  But in the maelstroem of doubt and anxiety was she tossed and whirled, and she cared not for her life.  To be rid of it, now for the first time, she felt might be a blessing.  What purpose, indeed, had she?  She turned her thought from this question, but it would not let her alone.  Again and yet again she turned to meet it, and thus would surely have at length its satisfying answer.