Jeanne Marie was only sixteen, but you would have thought her twenty, for
she was tall and dignified--she was as tall as her father: she was five
feet nine. She had a splendid length of limb, hips that gave only a
suggestion of curve line, a slender waist, a shapely, well-poised neck,
and a head that might have made a Juno envious. The face and brow were not
those of Venus--rather they belonged to Minerva; for the nose was large,
the chin full, and the mouth no pea's blossom. The hair was light brown,
but when the sun shone on it people said it was red. It was as generous in
quantity and unruly in habits as the westerly wind. Her eyes were all
colors, changing according to her mood. Withal, she had freckles, and no
one was ever so rash as to call her pretty.

Now, Jeanne's father had not kissed her for two years, for he was a very
busy man: he had not time for soft demonstration. He was rich, he was
religious, and he was looked upon as a model citizen in every way.

The daughter had grown like a sunflower, and her intellect had unfolded as
a moss-rose turns from bud to blossom. This splendid girl had thought and
studied and dreamed dreams. She had imagined she heard a voice speaking to
her: "Arise, maiden, and prepare thee, for I have a work for thee to do!"

Her wish and prayer was to enter a convent, and after consecrating herself
to God in a way that would allow of no turning back, to go forth and give
to men and women the messages that had come to her. And these things
filled the heart of the worthy bourgeois with alarm; so he said to his
wife one day: "That girl will be a foot taller than I am in a year, and
even now when I give her advice, she opens her big eyes and looks at me in
a way that thins my words to whey. She will get us into trouble yet! She
may disgrace us! I think--I think I'll find her a husband."