COME now, the good ship City of Paris sails in a few days, so let us away over the ocean to France.

Here we are in Paris, the most beautiful, though not the best city in the world, they say.

But after six days sightseeing we’ll hurry to another place, and here we are in Domremy. Here we’ll roam over the hills and think. See that cluster of trees? We must sit under them and upon that very stone. There on that grassy bank where the flowers are blooming, and at whose foot runs a gentle brook, we must spend an hour and think, think who sat upon that very spot nearly five hundred years ago and watched her father’s flock of sheep or listened to the singing birds or talked with God through the sweet roses she holds. Now she looks up at the great sun, now at a passing cloud; now a soft wind fans her face; a shepherd dog lies at her feet; just yonder some lambs are nestled together.

She is but thirteen years old, but she loves to speak to God as though he were by her side—and is he not?

Late one evening she comes leading the sheep home. Sitting alone looking out into the moonlight, Jeanne’s mother inquires: “My child, what keeps you so long in the field? You must come home earlier, my darling, or something will happen to you.”

“But, mamma, I’ve heard voices in the fields, and they seem to come from the roses and the rocks and the robins and in every wind, and they tell me of my native land and my home and God, that I must love ma belle France, and save it out of the hands of all its enemies, and this is what keeps me so late, my sweet, dear mamma.”

“Voices, child?”

“Aye, mamma, voices from Heaven speaking in my heart. Your Jeanne hears them loud, in my heart, at least, and they say I must save my poor sad country.”

Jeanne’s mother could say nothing, but wonder if the child was out of her mind, or if she had really had a vision of angels, as in olden times they came to the shepherds while they watched their flocks.

So the years went by, Jeanne always saying that these heavenly voices were calling her to save her unhappy country, her friends and neighbors sometimes calling her crazy.

She was now seventeen, a lovely pure girl, sorrowing much over the wars and troubles of her own beloved France. Ah! they were dark days indeed; this one wanted to be king, and that one said he must rule; armies met and fought, and some of the young men who went from Domremy, and with whom Jeanne had played, were brought back from the battle fields wounded and dying.

Then came a great army over from England, and city after city of France fell before its awful march. The frightened King Charles the Seventh feared all was lost. He knew not whither to fly with his sad little army. But just when he was going to give up word came to him about the girl of Domremy, our sweet Jeanne. Quickly a messenger was dispatched to her plain little home, and out into the fields he hastened to find her feeding her flock. He urged her to come to her king with all speed. She knew what it meant; she knew her hour was now come to save her “la belle France.”

Bidding her mother to pray for her, and covering her neck with kisses, she was soon galloping off with the messenger to the camp of the king. A smile of hope lit up his anxious face as she came into his presence. She told him about the “voices,” and said she was sure she could lead his army to victory if he would give her soldiers.

So then and there he put upon her the strong armor of commander, and giving her a sword and a war horse she led her little band against the English. They had heard of her, and thought she was sent of God, and fear fell upon them, and they threw down their arms and fled away in dismay.

Meanwhile, though Jeanne waved her flashing sword she never struck a blow with it, but she was again and again wounded.

At last came complete victory, and Jeanne saw the enemies of her beloved France fleeing from Orleans before her rejoicing army. For this she was called “La Pucelle d’Orleans,” or the Maid of Orleans. But she is usually called Joan of Arc.

After so much triumph she pleaded with her king to let her return to her dear Domremy home, but he would not consent. Meanwhile some of the great captains envied her all her victories, and managed to let her be taken prisoner. Now comes the sad, sad thing to tell. After this noble girl had saved her country, her king and the others let her be put into prison, tried, condemned, and burned to death as a witch! This is not the only case in which the best friend a country ever had was cruelly treated by that country. Jesus was crucified, crucified by his own people, whom he came to save. But scarcely had twenty years gone by before all the bitter persecutors of this dear brave Jeanne came to violent deaths, and the people, instead of calling her a witch, proclaimed her innocent, and a statue was erected to her memory on the very spot where she was burned, and her family was promoted by the king.

L.