rie runs wild in them for the first time), but now, I
suppose, St. Phyllis's native earth is all thrown up into bastion and
glacis, (profitable and blessed of all saints, and her, as _these_
have since proved themselves!) or else are covered with manufactories
and cabarets. Seven years old she was, then, when on his way to
_England_ from Auxerre, St. Germain passed a night in her village, and
among the children who brought him on his way in the morning in more
kindly manner than Elisha's convoy, noticed this one--wider-eyed in
reverence than the rest; drew her to him, questioned her, and was
sweetly answered: That she would fain be Christ's handmaid. And he
hung round her neck a small copper coin, marked with the cross.
Thencefoward Genevieve held herself as "separated from the world."

[Footnote 10: Miss Ingelow.]

[Footnote 11: On inquiry, I find in the flat between Paris and Sevres.]

6. It did not turn out so, however. Far the contrary. You must think of
her, instead, as the first of Parisiennes. Queen of Vanity Fair, that
was to be, sedately poor St. Phyllis, with her copper-crossed farthing
about her neck! More than Nitocris was to Egypt, more than Semiramis to
Nineveh, more than Zenobia to the city of palm trees--this
seven-years-old shepherd maiden became to Paris and her France. You have
not heard of her in that kind?--No: how should you?--for she did not
lead armies, but stayed them, and all her power was in peace.

7. There are, however, some seven or eight and twenty lives of her, I
believe; into the literature of which I cannot enter, nor need, all
having been ineffective in producing any clear picture of her to the
modern French or English mind; and leaving one's own poor sagacities
and fancy to gather and shape the sanctity of her into an
intelligible, I do not say a _credible_, form; for there is no
question here about belief,--the creature is as real as Joan of Arc,
and far more powerful;--she is separated, just as St. Martin is, by
his patience, from too provocative prelates--by her quietness of
force, from the pitiable crowd of feminine martyr saints.

There are thousands of religious girls who have never got themselves
into any calendars, but have wasted and wearied away their
lives--heaven knows why, for _we_ cannot; but here is one, at any
rate, who neither scolds herself to martyrdom, nor frets herself into
consumption, but becomes a tower of the Flock, and builder of folds
for them all her d