are indeed many ways in which Agnes does the work of the good God.’  The Bois-Sombres are poor, they have not a roof to shelter them save that of the old hotel in Semur, from whence they were sent forth like the rest of us.  And she and her children owed all to Agnes.  Figure to yourself then my resentment when this lady directed her scorn at my daughter-in-law.  I am not myself noble, though of the haute bourgeoisie, which some people think a purer race.

Long and terrible were the days we spent in this suspense.  For ourselves it was well that there was so much to do—­the food to provide for all this multitude, the little children to care for, and to prepare the provisions for our men who were before Semur.  I was in the Ardennes during the war, and I saw some of its perils—­but these were nothing to what we encountered now.  It is true that my son Martin was not in the war, which made it very different to me; but here the dangers were such as we could not understand, and they weighed upon our spirits.  The seat at the door, and that point where the road turned, where there was always so beautiful a view of the valley and of the town of Semur—­were constantly occupied by groups of poor people gazing at the darkness in which their homes lay.  It was strange to see them, some kneeling and praying with moving lips; some taking but one look, not able to endure the sight.  I was of these last.  From time to time, whenever I had a moment, I came out, I know not why, to see if there was any change.  But to gaze upon that altered prospect for hours, as some did, would have been intolerable to me.  I could not linger nor try to imagine what might be passing there, either among those who were within (as was believed), or those who were without the walls.  Neither could I pray as many did.  My devotions of every day I will never, I trust, forsake or forget, and that my Martin was always in my mind is it needful to say?  But to go over and over all the vague fears that were in me, and all those thoughts which would have broken my heart had they been put into words, I could not do this even to the good Lord Himself.  When I suffered myself to think, my heart grew sick, my head swam round, the light went from my eyes.  They are happy who can do so, who can take the bon Dieu into their confidence, and say all to Him; but me, I could not do it.  I could not dwell upon that which was so terrible, upon my home abandoned, my son—­Ah! now that it is past, it is still terrible to think of.  And then it was all I was capable of, to trust my God and do what was set before me.  God, He knows what it is we can do and what we cannot.  I could not tell even to Him all the terror and the misery and the darkness there was in me; but I put my faith in Him.  It was all of which I was capable.  We are not made alike, neither in the body nor in the soul.