avoided too
frequent conversation with her friend of late. She knew their paths were
separate, and was never so persuaded of the fact as this night, when, of
her own will, she sought to walk with Jacqueline. The sad face of her
friend troubled her; it moved her conscience that she did not deeply
share in her anxiety. When they came from Domremy, she had relied on
Jacqueline: there was safety in her counsel,--there was wisdom in it:
but now, either?

"It made me scream outright, when I saw the play," said she; "but it is
worse to see your face nowadays,--it is more terrible, Jacqueline."

Jacqueline made no reply to this,--and Elsie regarded the silence as
sufficient provocation.

"You seem to think I have no feeling," said she. "I am as sorry about
the poor fellows as you can be. But I cannot look as if I thought the
day of judgment close at hand, when I don't, Jacqueline."

"Very well, Elsie. I am not complaining of your looks."

"But you are,--or you might as well."

"Let not that trouble you, Elsie. Your face is smooth, at least; and
your voice does not sound like the voice of one who is in grief.
Rejoice,--for, as you say, you have a right to yourself, with which I
am not to interfere. We are old friends,--we came away from Lorraine
together. Do not forget that. I never will forget it."

"But you are done with me. You say nothing to me. I might as well be
dead, for all you care."

"Let us not talk of such things in this manner," said Jacqueline,
mildly. But the dignity of her rebuke was felt, for Elsie said,--

"But I seem to have lost you,--and now we are alone together, I may say
it. Yes, I have lost you, Jacqueline!"

"This is not the first time we have been alone together in these
dreadful three days."

"But now I cannot help speaking."

"You could help it before. Why, Elsie? You had not made up your mind.
But now you have, or you would not speak, and insist on speaking. What
have you to say, then?"

"Jacqueline! Are you Jacqueline?"

"Am I not?"

"You seem not to be."

"How is it, Elsie?"

"You are silent and stern, and I think you are very unhappy,
Jacqueline."

"I do not know,--not unhappy, I think. Perhaps I am silent,--I have been
so busy. But for all it is so dreadful--no! not unhappy, Elsie."

"Thinking of Leclerc all the while?"

"Of him? Oh, no! I have not been thinking of him,--not constantly. Jesus
Christ will take care of him. His mother is quiet, thinking that. I,
at leas