The Story of Tonty. Mary Hartwell Catherwood
she anxiously inquired.
“No. Better. Except I fear you have prayed yourself to a greater distance from me.”
“I name you in my prayers, Sieur de la Salle. Ever since my father ceased to be your friend I have asked to have your haughty spirit humbled.”
La Salle laughed.
“If you name me at all, Sainte Jeanne, pray rather for the humbling of my enemies.”
“No, Sieur de la Salle. You need your enemies. I could ill do without mine.”
“Who could be an enemy to thee?”
“There are many enemies of my soul. One is my great, my very great love.”
La Salle’s face whitened and flushed. He cast a quick glance upon the dozing matron, the backs of people whose conversation buzzed about his ears, and returned to Jeanne’s childlike white eyelids and crucifix-folding hands.
“Whom do you love, Sainte Jeanne?”
“I love my father so much, and my mother; and the children are too dear to me. Sometimes when I rise in the night to pray, and think of living apart from my dear father, the cold sweat stands on my forehead. Too many dear people throng between the soul and heaven. Even you, Sieur de la Salle—I have to pray against thoughts of you.”
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