was all the same as his. She questioned
him, with the simple desire to learn what he could tell her. Her hands
were very hard, so constant had been her dealing with the rough facts of
this life; but the hard hand was firm in its clasp, and ready with its
helpfulness. Her eyes were open, and very clear of dreams. There was
room in them for tenderness as well as truth. Her voice was not the
sweetest of all voices in this world; but it had the quality that would
make it prized by others when heart and flesh were failing; for it would
be strong to speak then with cheerful faith and an unfaltering courage.

Jacqueline sat there under the chestnut-trees, upon the river-bank,
strong-hearted, high-hearted, a brave, generous woman. What if her days
were toilsome? What if her peasant-dress was not the finest woven in the
looms of Paris or of Meaux? Her prayers were brief, her toil was long,
her sleep was sound,--her virtue firm as the everlasting mountains.
Jacqueline, I have singled you from among hordes and tribes and legions
upon legions of women, one among ten thousand, altogether lovely,--not
for dalliance, not for idleness, not for dancing, which is well; not for
song, which is better; not for beauty, which, perhaps, is best; not for
grace, or power, or passion. There is an attribute of God which is more
to His universe than all evidence of power. It is His truth. Jacqueline,
it is for this your name shall shine upon my page.

And, manifestly, it is by virtue of this quality that her reader is
moved and attracted at this hour of twilight on the river-bank.

Her intelligence is so quick! her apprehension so direct! her
conclusions so true! He intended to aid her; but Mazurier himself had
never uttered comments so entirely to the purpose as did this young
girl, speaking from heart and brain. Better fortune, apparently, could
not have befallen him than was his in this reading; for with every
sentence almost came her comment, clear, earnest, to the point.

He had need of such a friend as Jacqueline seemed able to prove herself.
His nearest living relative was an uncle, who had sent the ambitious and
capable young student to Meaux; for he gave great promise, and was worth
an experiment, the old man thought,--and was strong to be thrown out
into the world, where he might ascertain the power of self-reliance. He
had need of friends, and, of all friends, one like Jacqueline.

From the silence and retirement of his home in Picar