loor. Mother
Meraut was a wise woman; she knew when to pray and when to scrub, and
upon occasion did both with equal energy to the glory of God and the
service of his Church. Today it was her task to make the little chapel
clean and sweet, for was not the Abbe coming to examine the
Confirmation Class in its catechism, and were not her own two children,
Pierre and Pierette, in the class? In time to the heart-beats of the
organ, Mother Meraut swept her brush back and forth, and it was already
near the hour for the class to assemble when at last she set aside her
scrubbing-pail, wiped her hands upon her apron, and began to dust the
chairs which had been standing outside the arched entrance, and to
place them in orderly rows within the chapel.

She had nearly completed her task, when there was a tap-tapping upon
the stone floor, and down the long aisle, leaning upon his crutch, came
Father Varennes. He stopped near the chapel and watched her as she
whisked the last chair into place and then paused with her hands upon
her hips to make a final inspection of her work.

"Bonjour, Antoinette," said the Verger.

Mother Meraut turned her round, cheerful face toward him. "Ah, it is
you, Henri," she cried, "come, no doubt, to see if the chapel is clean
enough for the Abbe! Well, behold."

The Verger peered through the arched opening, and sniffed the wet,
soapy smell which pervaded the air. "One might even eat from your clean
floor, Antoinette," he said, smiling, "and taste nothing worse with his
food than a bit of soap. Truly the chapel is as clean as a shriven
soul."

"It's a bold bit of dirt that would try to stand out against me,"
declared Mother Meraut, with a flourish of her dust-cloth, "for when I
go after it I think to myself, 'Ah, if I but had one of those
detestable Germans by the nose, how I would grind it!' and the very
thought brings such power to my elbow that I check myself lest I wear
through the stones of the floor."

The Verger laughed, then shook his head. "Truly, Antoinette," he said,
"I believe you could seize your husband's gun if he were to fall, and
fill his place in the Army as well as you fill his place here in the
Cathedral, doing a man's work with a woman's strength, and smiling as
if it were but play! Our France can never despair while there are women
like you."

"My Jacques shall carry his own gun," said Mother Meraut, stoutly, "and
bring it home with him when the war is over, if God wills, and