"Pretty and prepossessing girls," a matron was heard to say, "should not show themselves in public." "If you do speak," said a pastor, skilled in distinctions, "you should speak to women only, and not before men." All through the storm the central figure was quiet and self-possessed. But she was thinking hard. The idea of a distinction in sex had never come before her as a speaker; it was new and strange to her. When she at length spoke again, she put the result of her thinking into a simple, memorable, unanswerable dictum: "But there is no sex in soul." Perhaps somebody had said the same thing before, but it was none the less original on her part. Then she expanded the truth: "The needs of a man’s soul are the same as a woman’s, and vice versa. You do not get up and say there are so many men and so many women in a meeting. They all need salvation, pardon, purity, peace; all the gifts and graces of the Spirit are for men and women alike. Of course," she continued, "if any woman is so light and frivolous that she makes such a distinction, that certainly proves that she has no vocation to be an evangelist, and I should send her home by the next train." She felt that the atmosphere of the room was horrible. Religious controversies, like religious wars, create a more frightful spirit than any other quarrels. Instead of prolonging the discussion, the Maréchale sank on her knees and began to pray. She had won by prayer many victories which were remembered after long years. When she was a child of fourteen, she attended a meeting of her mother’s at Ryde in the Isle of Wight. She sat far back beside the door, listening till the address was ended, and then she heard her mother ask if some brother or sister would pray. As nobody responded, and the silence became too oppressive to bear, Katie rose and poured out her heart to God in tones of passionate earnestness, seeking for a victory ere the meeting ended. When she got home, she was folded in her mother’s arms and covered with kisses; and forty years after, when she was herself conducting a mission at Ryde, a saintly lady of ninety-two told her that no prayer lived in her memory like that child’s prayer. It was such a prayer—long, intense, passionate—that the Maréchale prayed among the orthodox of Nîmes. That night the eldest daughter of M. Peyron, a beautiful, worldly girl, was won for Christ. At seven o’clock on the following morning two pastors, MM. Challand and Babut, along with M. Peyron, awoke the Maréchale. They had come to say, for themselves and others, how they deplored the scene of the preceding night, and to beg forgiveness.