and a Red Cross on his cap; and it was after all his country's
uniform, and he was a servant of his country. And men say that even
in the days of his young godhood he was not so happy, nor did his
face shine in such pride as it shines today. For he is a man. He
serves.

After our visit to the American troops we went down to Domremy,
the birth place of Joan of Arc. It was good to view her from the
aspect of her Old Home Town. There is a church, restored, where
she worshipped, and the home where she was born and lived. It was
a better house than one is led to suppose she lived in, and indicates
that her people were rather of more consequence than common. We
visited the home, went into the church, and walked in the garden
where she met the angel; but we met postcard vendors instead. Yet
it is a fair garden, back from the road, half hidden by a wall, and
in it is a lovely drooping tree. A fair place it was indeed for an
angel to choose. Some way Joan leaves me without much enthusiasm.
Perhaps it is because she has had two good friends who have done
her bad turns. The Pope, who made her a saint, and Mark Twain, who
made her human. It is difficult to say, off-hand, which did her
the worse service. Some way, it seems to me, she could live in our
hearts more beautifully in the remote and noble company of myths
like the lesser gods, made by men to express their deepest yearnings
for the beautiful in life. The pleasant land in which she lived,
the gentle hills whereon she watched her flocks, and the tender
sky of France, all made me happy, and if Joan did not get to me,
perhaps it was because one can take away from a place only what he
brings there.

When we left Domremy, the hills--soft green hills, high but never