something were not done for the people they would not know how to face
the winter. In the time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont they had always been
made comfortable and happy at Christmas. What was to be done? The _curé_
ventured to write to Mademoiselle Elizabeth.

[Illustration: The villagers did not stand in awe of her.]

The poor child had scarcely slept at all. Her dear village! Her dear
people! The children would be hungry; the cows would die; there would be
no fires to warm those who were old.

"I must go to uncle," she said, pale and trembling. "I must ask him to
give me money. I am afraid, but it is right to mortify the spirit. The
martyrs went to the stake. The holy Saint Elizabeth was ready to endure
anything that she might do her duty and help the poor."

Because she had been called Elizabeth she had thought and read a great
deal of the saint whose namesake she was--the saintly Elizabeth whose
husband was so wicked and cruel, and who wished to prevent her from doing
good deeds. And oftenest of all she had read the legend which told that
one day as Elizabeth went out with a basket of food to give to the poor
and hungry, she had met her savage husband, who had demanded that she
should tell him what she was carrying, and when she replied "Roses," and
he tore the cover from the basket to see if she spoke the truth, a
miracle had been performed, and the basket was filled with roses, so
that she had been saved from her husband's cruelty, and also from telling
an untruth. To little Elizabeth this legend had been beautiful and quite
real--it proved that if one were doing good, the saints would take care
of one. Since she had been in her new home, she had, half consciously,
compared her Uncle Bertrand with the wicked Landgrave, though she was too