storm of words and this whirlwind of passion.

The Pere had got upon his feet, toward the last, and now he stood there
passing his hand back and forth across his forehead like a person who is
dazed and troubled; then he turned and wandered toward the door of
his little workroom, and as he passed through it I heard him murmur
sorrowfully:

"Ah, me, poor children, poor fiends, they have rights, and she said
true--I never thought of that. God forgive me, I am to blame."

When I heard that, I knew I was right in the thought that he had set
a trap for himself. It was so, and he had walked into it, you see. I
seemed to feel encouraged, and wondered if mayhap I might get him into
one; but upon reflection my heart went down, for this was not my gift.

Chapter 3 All Aflame with Love of France

SPEAKING of this matter reminds me of many incidents, many things that I
could tell, but I think I will not try to do it now. It will be more
to my present humor to call back a little glimpse of the simple and
colorless good times we used to have in our village homes in those
peaceful days--especially in the winter. In the summer we children were
out on the breezy uplands with the flocks from dawn till night, and then
there was noisy frolicking and all that; but winter was the cozy time,
winter was the snug time. Often we gathered in old Jacques d'Arc's big
dirt-floored apartment, with a great fire going, and played games, and
sang songs, and told fortunes, and listened to the old villagers tell
tales and histories and lies and one thing and another till twelve
o'clock at night.

One winter's night we were gathered there--it was the winter that for
years afterward they called the hard winter--and that particular night
was a sharp one. It blew a gale outside, and the screaming of the wind
was a stirring sound, and I think I may say it was beautiful, for I
think it is great and fine and beautiful to hear the wind rage and storm
and blow its clarions like that, when you are inside and comfortable.
And we were. We had a roaring fire, and the pleasant spit-spit of the
snow and sleet falling in it down the chimney, and the yarning and
laughing and singing went on at a noble rate till about ten o'clock,
and then we had a supper of hot porridge and beans, and meal cakes with
butter, and appetites to match.

Little Joan sat on a box apart, and had her bowl and bread on another
one, and her pets around her helping. She had more than w