The free press., 1893-12-28

madame, I can tell you. L did not
feel that God was kind to me, as I had
always felt before / cannot tell you
how / felt, for it Is wicked to say any
such words, but in the midst of my
despair / met Father Uric.
You were not at church last Sun
day, dame, he said.
no sir, said I. Il have SO much
on my mind that / forget everything
else. Jean Baptiste is conscripted, and
we have no money to pay for substi-
tute.
I" is that any reason why you
should not remember heaven?' said
Father Uric. Surely God may
well forget us if we forget Him
'And though I did not feel as
though I cared what Father Uric said
| Just then, L remembered his words
when was alone, in the dead of the
night, and also that had not prayed
that Jean .Baptiste might be spared to
me; and 1 felt as though if L prayed
heartily and from my soul, an answer
might come, and I felt comforted.
And next morning | dressed myself in
my very best, and went across the
meadows to the church, and then /
knelt down and tried to remember the
good words had been wont to say.
But could not recall one, and l was
| forced to use my own poor language,
and to say just this-no more:
Heavenly Father, who knowest
what mothers love is, let me keep
Jean Baptiste from the cruel war
81 said it over and over again.
There was no one near but one lady in
deep mourning, and l could not see
her face. She knelt also, and counted
her beads. And all was still as death
only now and then l heard my own
voice, as though it were another's.
And something seemed to say that my
PRAYERS would be answered. And L
arose comforted, and / went out into
the church-yard, full of moss-grown
stones, and walked there for while.
And the lady in mourning came ont
also, and laid wreath of immortelles
upon soldiers grave, and kissed the
stone, on which sword was carved
and his name, and went away. And L
went home also, and my heart was at
rest. And all day 1 watched and
waited for some strange answer to my
prayer, but none came. And L was
sad of heart again when the twilight
fell, and it was time to milk the COW.
I took my pail and went to find her.
She had strayed into meadow hard
by, and was cropping the sere autumn
grass. knelt down there to milk
her, and my poor pail would not be
full. I knew. 1t was another sign OF
our great poverty, l got my quart or
so. and set it down and leaned against
the fence and wept. And said:
"'There is nothing to hope for, and
prayers do no good. Jean must go to
the war, and his mothers eyes shall
| ,.oxa~ aaa him oOeiD
"And my eyes were covered with
my apron, when hand as soft as SILK
touched mine, and voice-oh, so
sweet and heavenly-said softly:
"'No, dame, he shall not go. Hold
your apron. This will keep him with
you.
"And I looked up, and there stood
lady. Her face was so beautiful
that it frightened me. And the sun
WAS set. and the moon was up, and It's
whiteness fell over her. About her
neck she wore a black cross, and gold
en- hair rippled down over her fore
head. She was like the Madonna III
the picture in our church. L could
not STIR 1 could not speak. She
smiled upon me.
"'Hold your apron, DAME, she
said.
"And I had just strength enough TO
do it. And then shower OF gold ana
silver trickled into it. And again she
said:
"'Your Jean Baptiste need not CO.
and was gone herself like vlsion'
"And saved he was. God bepralsed
for it
"Never but once after that did l see
a face like that / saw that night. IL
was when Madame La Fontalne' the
widow of the brave soldier, whose
tombstone with the sword upon IL
stands in our own graveyard lay III