nts were made real before me.

This very street was the Alpha of her public life; the market place of
Rouen its Omega! Riding forth in the bitter cold of that February
morning, 1429, with but meager escort and along three hundred miles of
brigand-infested roads and trails, she traversed France to the court of
Chinon. Convincing Charles VII of her divine vocation; throwing herself
into the war; rallying the people to her standard; wounded in battle yet
never wavering; animating veteran soldiers; bearing the brunt of the
attack and shielding with her stainless bosom the heart of France.

Her recompense? Abandoned by her king and by her countrymen, by the
cruel path of flame she returns to God!

The several hours following Mass, we passed in the home where she was
born, and on the hillside where she toiled as humble shepherdess.
Reverently, and in very awe of its beauty, we visited the magnificent
Basilica the people of France have raised to her memory. The structure
is but partially finished; and I urged the good Fathers there in charge
to visit America some day and give its people opportunity to contribute
to so worthy a cause.

Returning to the front we found the "War Cross" which had arrived during
our absence. Colonel Lenoncle wrote as follows:

"A Monsieur l'Aumonier McCarthy.

En appreciation de la belle action de Charite
qu'el est venie accomplir pour notre chere
terre de France.

P. Lenoncle, Col. Chas.
in Compagne."

The above referred to services in Bois-le-Pretre.

"Tempora mutantur et nos ubique in illis." It is only the things that
God has made that change not. The moon, bathing in silvery sheen the
village street, had made radiant, in that long ago, the face of Joan at
prayer. The Meuse, softly flowing by, still voiced the echo of her
dreams, and bore her spirit to the tideless sea.

Nature had not changed; neither had the Author of Nature whose creatures
are all men and whose ways are wise and just. For He whose "Mills grind
slowly yet grind exceedingly small" is likewise He whose Master hand has
written in this our own day, the illuminated Manuscript of her solemn
Canonization.

The golden fingers of next morning's sun were scattering incense of
light over Joan's Altar as I began Mass. The lips of Old Glory kissed
the Gospel side, while the tri-color of France was draped on the
Epistle. A nun of the village answered the responses. Reverently I
besought the Author