Elsie’s chief desire had been to get Jacqueline safely into the house ere she could find opportunity for expression of what was passing in her mind.  Her fear was even greater than her curiosity.  She had no desire to learn, under these present circumstances, the arguments and incidents which the knots of men and women were discussing with so much vehemence as they passed by.  She could guess enough to satisfy her.  So she had hurried along, betraying more eagerness than was common with her to get out of the street.  Not often was she so overcome of weariness,—­not often so annoyed by heat and dust.  Jacqueline, without remonstrance, followed her.  But they were two,—­not one.

Once safe in their upper room, Elsie appeared to be, after all, not so devoid of interest in what was passing in the street as her hurried walk would seem to betoken.  She had not quite yet lost her taste for excitement and display.  For immediately she seated herself by the window, and was all eye and ear to what went on outside.

Jacqueline’s demonstrations also were quite other than might have been anticipated.  Each step she took in her chamber gave an indication that she had a purpose,—­and that she would perform it.

She removed from her dress the dust and stain of toil, arranged her hair, made herself clean and decent, to meet the sober gaze of others.  Then she placed upon the table the remains of their breakfast,—­but she ate nothing.

VIII.

It was nearly dark when Jacqueline said to Elsie,—­

“I am now going to see John and his mother.  I must see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears.  I may be able to help them,—­and I know they will be able to help me.  John’s word will be worth hearing,—­and I want to hear it.  He must have learned in these days more than we shall ever be able to learn for ourselves.  Will you go with me?”

“No,” cried Elsie,—­as though she feared she might against her will be taken into such company.  Then, not for her own sake, but for Jacqueline’s, she added, almost as if she hoped that she might prove successful in persuasion, “I remember my father and mother.  What they taught me I believe.  And that I shall live by.  I shall never be wiser than they were.  And I know I never can be happier.  They were good and honest.  Jacqueline, we shall never be as happy again as we were in Domremy, when the pastor blessed us, and we hunted flowers for the altar,—­never!—­never!” And Elsie Meril, overcome by her recollections and her presentiments, burst into tears.

“It was the happiness of ignorance,” said Jacqueline, after a solemn silence full of hurried thought.  “No,—­I, for one, shall never be as happy as I was then.  But my joy will be full of peace and bliss.  It will be full of satisfaction,—­very different, but such as belongs to me, such as I must not do without.  God led us from Domremy, and with me shall He do as seemeth good to Him.  We were children then, Elsie; but now may we be children no longer!”