The saints visited her nearly every day after this. She met them everywhere; sometimes in the woods, or near the Spring; often they appeared in the little garden close to the precincts of the church, and especially did they come when the bells were ringing for matins or compline. It was then that she heard the sweet words that they spoke most distinctly. So she loved the sound of the bells with which the voices mingled. Soon she grew to call the visions "My Voices," for the appearance of her visitors was always more imperfect to her than the message. Their outlines and their lovely faces might shine uncertain in the excess of light, but the words were always plain. The piety and devotion of the girl deepened into a fervid wonder of faith. She put aside the gayety of girlhood, and lived a simple, devout, tender life, helping her mother, obeying her father, and doing what she could for every one. It seemed to her that she was one set apart, subject to the Divine guidance. Nor did she tell any one of her experiences, but locked the Divine secret in her heart, showing forth the tenderness and gravity of one who bears great tidings. She became so good that all the village wondered at her, and loved her. "Jeanne confesses oftener than any of you," the Curé told his parishioners reprovingly. "When I celebrate mass I am sure that she will be present whether the rest of you are or not. Would that more of you were like her! Had she money she would give it to me to say masses." The good man sighed. Money was not plentiful in Domremy. But if she had not money the child gave what she had: flowers for the altars, candles for the saints, and loving service to all about her. She was an apt pupil in the school of her saints, and learned well to be a good child before she conned the great lesson in store for her. "Jeanne grows angelic," Isabeau remarked complacently one day to Jacques. "There never was her like. So good, so obedient, she never gives me a bit of trouble. And what care she takes of her little sister! Catherine has been hard to attend this summer, so fretful and ailing as she is, but Jeanne can always quiet her. I know not what I should do without her. I am the envy of all the women in the village; for, they say, there is not another girl so good in the valley." But Jacques D'Arc frowned. "Too quiet and staid is she for her age," he remarked. "Have you marked, Isabeau, that she no longer dances with the other children? Nor does she romp, or play games with them. And the praying, and the church-going! There is too much of it for the child's good." "Jacques!" exclaimed his wife in shocked tones. "How can you say that? The good Curé commends Jeanne for her devoutness. That can only do her good." "Then what is it?" demanded the father impatiently. "Could it be that some one is teaching the girl letters, that she is so quiet? Learning of that sort works harm to a lass." His wife shook her head emphatically.