By Margery Vener Reed
BEFORE a statue of Joan of Arc， in a little country church， achild knelt in prayer.
OH protect my papa—the little one prayed.
SHE lighted a candle—offered it to the Maid of France.
* * * * *
A YOUNG girl prayed at the feet of the Saint. She burned acandle.
FOR ANDRé—for his safety.
THE invaders entered the village，—heeding neither churchnor ground of the dead.
THEY ripped open shallow graves to show the living they hadpower—even over those who had gone. They killed the priest.
And the nuns， even， from the school.
THEY damaged.
DESTROYED—
THE church caught fire. The candles， burning before theSaint of Domremy， blazed into one huge flame. It shot up tothe roof. And seemed to cry—
O JOAN OF ARC—come back—France needs you.
* * * * *
THE child—
AN Angel of Heaven
THE young girl who had prayed for André—two officers hadtaken her.
SHE struggled—
A SWORD—
THE flames of the burning village had revealed it.
MONSIEUR L’ABBé had said suicide was sin—but surely Godwould forgive—
SHE pierced the sword into her white flesh—blood flowed tothe ground.
LITTLE FOOL muttered the maddened officer.
HE went back to the village—for more destroying.
A STONE from a burning house—
HE died with an oath.
BUT André， weeks before， had died with prayer upon hislips—a thought for his sweet betrothed.