John Leclerc might pass through this ordeal, as from the first she had expected of him.  But she listened to the speech of many of her fellow-laborers.  Some prophecies which had a sound incredible escaped them.  She did not credit them, but they tormented her.  They contended with one another.  John, some foretold, would certainly retract.  One day of public whipping would suffice.  When the blood began to flow, he would see his duty clearer!  The men were prophesying from the depths and the abundance of their self-consciousness.  Others speculated on the final result of the executed sentence.  They believed that the “obstinacy” and courage of the man would provoke his judges, and the executors of his sentence,—­that with rigor they would execute it,—­and that, led on by passion, and provoked by such as would side with the victim, the sentence would terminate in his destruction.  Sooner or later, nothing but his life would be found ultimately to satisfy his enemies.

It might be so, thought Jacqueline Gabrie.  What then? what then?—­she thought.  There was inspiration to the girl in that cruel prophecy.  Her lifework was not ended.  If Christ was the One Ransom, and it did truly fall on Him, and not on her, to care for those beloved, departed from this life, her work was still for love.

John Leclerc disabled or dead, who should care then for his aged mother?  Who should minister to him?  Who, indeed, but Jacqueline?

Living or dying, she said to herself, with grand enthusiasm,—­living or dying, let him do the Master’s pleasure!  She also was here to serve that Master; and while in spiritual things he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, gave the cup of living water, visited the imprisoned, and the sick of sin, she would bind herself to minister to him and his old mother in temporal things; so should he live above all cares save those of heavenly love.  She could support them all by her diligence, and in this there would be joy.

She thought this through her toil; and the thought was its own reward.  It strengthened her like an angel,—­strengthened heart and faith.  She labored as no other peasant-woman did that day,—­like a beast of burden, unresisting, patient,—­like a holy saint, so peaceful and assured, so conscious of the present very God!

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

MIDSUMMER.

  Around this lovely valley rise
  The purple hills of Paradise. 
  Oh, softly on yon banks of haze
  Her rosy face the Summer lays! 
  Becalmed along the azure sky,
  The argosies of cloudland lie,
  Whose shores, with many a shining rift,
  Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

  Through all the long midsummer-day
  The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. 
  I seek the coolest sheltered seat
  Just where the field and forest meet,—­
  Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,
  The ancient oaks austere and grand,
  And fringy roots and pebbles fret
  The ripples of the rivulet.