bent on amusement.  It seems that her courage almost failed her, but grasping the cross which hung round her neck, she entered a crowd of pleasure-seekers, saying, ’Won’t you give me something for my poor people?’ Now, Mother, isn’t the story a wonderful one? for there was genius in this woman, though it was only for begging:  a tall, thin, curious, fantastic figure, considered simple by some, but gifted for her task which had been revealed to her in middle age.”

“But why, Evelyn, does that seem to you so strange that her task should have been revealed to her in middle age?”

Evelyn looked at the Reverend Mother for a while unable to answer, then went on suddenly with her tale, telling how that day, at that very regatta, a man had slapped Jeanne in the face, and she had answered, “You are perfectly right, a box on the ears is just what is suited to me; but now tell me what you are going to give me for my poor people.”  At another part of the ground somebody had begun to tease her—­some young man, no doubt, in a long fashionable grey frock-coat with race-glasses hung round his neck, had ventured to tease this noble woman, to twit her, to jeer and jibe at her uncouthness, for she was uncouth, and she stood bearing with these jeers until they apologised to her.  “Never mind the apology,” she had answered; “you have had your fun out of me, now give me something for my poor people.”  They gave her five francs, and she said, “At that price you may tease me as much as you please.”

Evelyn asked if it were not extraordinary how an ignorant and uncouth woman, a goatherd during her childhood, a priest’s servant till she was well on in middle age, should have been able to invent a system of charity which had penetrated all over Europe.  Every moment Evelyn expected the Prioress to check her, for she was conscious that she was placing the active orders above the contemplative, Jeanne above St. Teresa, and, determined to see how far she could go in this direction without being reproved, she began to speak of how Jeanne, after having made the beds and cleaned the garret in the morning, took down a big basket and stood receiving patiently the remonstrances addressed to her, the blind woman saying, “I am certain and sure you will forget to ask for the halfpenny a week which I used to get from the grocery store, you very nearly forgot it last week, and had to go back for it.”  “But I’ll not make a mistake this time,” Jeanne would answer.  Her bed-ridden friend would reprove her, “But you did forget to ask for my soup.”  To bear patiently with all such unjust remonstrances was part of Jeanne’s genius, and Evelyn asked the Reverend Mother if it were not strange that a woman like Jeanne had never inspired some great literary work.

“I spoke just now of Hamlet, Don Quixote, but Falstaff himself is not more real than Jeanne, and her words are always so wonderful, wonderful as Joan of Arc’s.  When the old woman used to hide their food under the bed-clothes and sell it for food for the pigs, leaving the Little Sisters almost starving, Jeanne used to say, ‘So-and-so has not been as nice as usual this afternoon.’  How is it, Mother, that no great writer has ever given us a portrait of Jeanne?”