After the meal, and when all had retired, I made my way out into the moon-lit night. Domremy was sleeping, nor did it give thought of "the stranger within its gates." Back to the Church, and to the home of Joan, still standing beside it, I made my way. I revelled in the historical ensemble of it all; and my desire was to become so imbued with its very atmosphere, as to verily breathe it all my remaining life. In fancy I reviewed the story of her life like pages of a book, and its thrilling deeds and transcending achievements were made real before me. This very street was the Alpha of her public life; the market place of Rouen its Omega! Riding forth in the bitter cold of that February morning, 1429, with but meager escort and along three hundred miles of brigand-infested roads and trails, she traversed France to the court of Chinon. Convincing Charles VII of her divine vocation; throwing herself into the war; rallying the people to her standard; wounded in battle yet never wavering; animating veteran soldiers; bearing the brunt of the attack and shielding with her stainless bosom the heart of France. Her recompense? Abandoned by her king and by her countrymen, by the cruel path of flame she returns to God! The several hours following Mass, we passed in the home where she was born, and on the hillside where she toiled as humble shepherdess. Reverently, and in very awe of its beauty, we visited the magnificent Basilica the people of France have raised to her memory. The structure is but partially finished; and I urged the good Fathers there in charge to visit America some day and give its people opportunity to contribute to so worthy a cause. Returning to the front we found the "War Cross" which had arrived during our absence. Colonel Lenoncle wrote as follows: "A Monsieur l'Aumonier McCarthy. En appreciation de la belle action de Charite qu'el est venie accomplir pour notre chere terre de France. P. Lenoncle, Col. Chas. in Compagne." The above referred to services in Bois-le-Pretre. "Tempora mutantur et nos ubique in illis." It is only the things that God has made that change not. The moon, bathing in silvery sheen the village street, had made radiant, in that long ago, the face of Joan at prayer. The Meuse, softly flowing by, still voiced the echo of her dreams, and bore her spirit to the tideless sea. Nature had not changed; neither had the Author of Nature whose creatures are all men and whose ways are wise and just. For He whose "Mills grind slowly yet grind exceedingly small" is likewise He whose Master hand has written in this our own day, the illuminated Manuscript of her solemn Canonization.