IF one thought anything of omens (which I do not in general, though I confess I would rather not see the new moon through glass) I might think it a bad one that my first distinct recollection is of a fall. It happened in this wise: I was sitting on the edge of the great fountain basin, eating a bit of spice cake, and watching some vernons—so they call the little wild canaries in that part of the world—which were flying in and out of the great ivy on the north wall, where I suppose they had young ones. In my interest in the birds, I forgot that my perch was both narrow and slippery. I leaned backward, the better to obtain a view of the bird's nest, which I could but just see, and so doing I lost my balance, and down I went into the water.

Luckily for me, there was help at hand, for the basin was deep and I was small. Mother Prudentia was just coming for water, and pulled me out before I had time to scream more than once. If I had seen her so near, I should not have been sitting there, for the thing was strictly forbidden. But she pulled me out and carried me to the dormitory, where I was quickly undressed and well scolded at the same time, and popped into bed.

I spent the rest of the day dully enough, but a little consoled by the gift of a second piece of spice cake and the company of my doll, which the good mother's relenting heart allowed me, after I had sobbingly confessed that I was very sorry, and would never do so again. I think she would even have let me get up but for the fear of my taking cold and having consumption. Mother Prudentia was fully convinced that all English women died of consumption, sooner or later.

To this day, the smell of a bit of fresh spice cake will bring that whole scene before my eyes. I can see the arched cloisters surrounding the paved court, with the old fountain well in the centre. I can look through the great pointed doorway and see a second court, with a tall cross in the centre surrounded by low grassy mounds, where generation after generation of the sisters rested in peace. I can smell the odor of the roses which grew so luxuriantly in the corner by the little postern door which led into the church, and the wild lavender and the rosemary, which had sprung up in those places—alas, very many—where the marble pavement had gone to decay, or the cloister walls and arches were in ruins. I can feel the very brooding, yet not stifling heat of the summer day in June, and breathe the air smelling not only of the aromatic herbs which so abound in that country, but also of the fresh breath of the sea.

I may say this association was the beginning of these memoirs. For as I was speaking of it to my dear Lady the last time she came to visit me, she thought a little, and said she to me:

"Lucy, why don't you write out the recollections of those days? They would be interesting to the children, by and by. You are a Corbet on both sides, and you know the Corbets have always been famous for writing chronicles. Come, take pen in hand, and have something to read me when I come again."

"And what is to become of my children's lessons and clothes?" I asked.

"Let the children mend their own clothes. It will be all the better for them, and you have no need to be doing such work at all. Anne Penberthy ought to take all that off your hands."

"And so she does," I answered, seeing that, by making use of the first excuse that came to hand, I had given Amabel a false impression. "Anne is a good girl and a faithful, if one ever lived; but I must have something to do when I sit down, and I tire of knitting, after a while."

"Well, then, try writing, for a change," said my Lady, smiling; and then she began to talk of one of the girls who had fallen and hurt her knee (it was Bridget Polwarth, of course—trust her for that, poor child!), and no more was said at that time.

But when evening was come, and the children were all abed, except two or three of the elder ones, to whom Anne was diligently reading a new book which my Lady brought down to us, then I began to think of what my Lady had said that morning. I had plenty of time, and my eyes are very good, so that I really hardly need glasses at all, except to do fine darning and the like. I have had an uncommonly good education (though I say it that shouldn't, perhaps), and I have passed, with my dear Lady, through many strange chances and changes in this mortal life. Why should I not write all these things down for the benefit of my Lady's children? And so it has come to pass that I have really taken pen in hand and begun this memoir, if it deserves so grand a name.

My first clear recollections are of the convent in Provence, where I was bred with Mrs. Amabel Leighton till I was about sixteen years old. The convent had once been a very wealthy establishment; and I have heard that, in the early days of Louis Fourteenth, the abbess used to entertain company in princely style, with more of magnificence and luxury than any of the gentry round about, and, in fact, with more than at all befitted a religious house.

But there was nothing of that sort done in my day. The means were wanting, even if our good mother had cherished any such desires. I am sure she did not, though, doubtless, she would have liked to have new hangings for the church, to repair the cloisters, and make the refectory at least weather-proof, and perhaps to mend our cheer a little on feast days. But the resources were hardly large enough at that time to furnish us with food and clothes, and so all these things remained undone. However, the elders of the house consoled themselves with the thought that they suffered for righteousness' sake, and were laying up merit thereby, and the young ones were happy in their youth; so we were a very cheerful household, after all.

Our foundation was one of those numerous offshoots from one of the great orders, which, under different names, are found all over Europe, and, as I said, had at one time enjoyed a princely revenue, of which the best use had not always been made. The convent was, in some way which I do not understand, a kind of dependency of the neighboring noble family of Crequi, and was a very convenient place wherein to bestow unmarried and portionless sisters, plain daughters, or those to whom it was not convenient to give large dowries, and other inconvenient female relations.

The abbess—such was her rank—had her carriage and the ladies their servants, and they were by no means particular about keeping their enclosure, as it is called, but visited and were visited themselves as long and as often as they pleased. I heard all the story many a time from Mother Prudentia, who had learned it, in her turn, from a very old nun, who well remembered those days.

But presently there came a wonderful change. The famous Mother Angelique was made abbess of Port Royal when hardly twelve years old, and was converted afterward by the preaching of a wandering friar, himself a very bad man, which shows how good may sometimes be done even by wicked men. No sooner did the Mother Angelique become really religious herself than she set about reforming her house. The nuns, for the most part, seconded her with enthusiasm. No more gay visitors were admitted. No more feasts were given or fine clothes worn. No more worldly songs were heard. Instead one saw nothing but religious ceremonies, works of charity, instructing and clothing of poor children, and the like. Hours of silence were multiplied and strictly observed, as were also the church services.

This change of affairs was greatly admired in some quarters, and as severely condemned in others. Mother Angelique went about the country visiting the different houses of the order and ours among the number. Our own abbess was a young lady of that same noble family of Crequi, and at that time about four and twenty.

"She was as beautiful as an angel, so Mother Benedict used to say, and greatly admired," (I quote Mother Prudentia's own words), "but she never seemed happy in all her gaiety, and, even at its height, she would pass whole nights watching and weeping in the church, or in her own private chapel. Some said she had been in love with a poor young cousin, who disappeared, nobody knew exactly how, though every one might guess; and the lady being offered her choice of the cloister or a gay courtly bridegroom, chose the first." And then, if she were in a very confidential mood, Mother Prudentia's voice would sink to a whisper, as she told how the poor young man was believed to have been put to death by his own relations at a spot in the chase where no grass or flowers ever sprung afterward.

However that might be, the abbess hailed Mother Angelique as though she had been an angel from Heaven. They spent long hours closeted together or pacing up and down the cloistered walk which runs along the side of the cemetery. There was a change in the house as sudden as that at Port Royal. The carriages and horses were sold, all superfluous servants dismissed, and the fare reduced to the plainest sort. No more visits were made outside the walls and none received, except at the regular times when the sisters were allowed to talk with their friends through the grate in the parlors, in proper convent fashion.

Mother Prudentia said that most of the younger nuns fell into these new ways easily enough, and were as enthusiastic as the abbess herself, so that they had to be checked, rather than urged; but the elder women were not so pliant. They liked their amusements, their good dinners and suppers, and their gossip with visitors from outside; and the abbess ran some risk of being murdered in her own house. Indeed, it was believed that a severe illness which befell the lady about that time was the effect of poison administered by a certain Italian nun who was the most bitterly opposed to the new state of things.

For a while everything prospered. The Abbess was determined, and seemed to have a real genius for government. She lived to see all her measures carried out, and was succeeded by a spiritual daughter of Mother Angelique's, who had been sent, with two or three others, to assist in the work of reformation. The great revenues were used in maintaining schools, in assisting the poor, and in establishing and endowing a second house of our order in Toulon, to which daughters of trades-people and the like were admitted; for none but ladies of noble birth were allowed to renounce the world at our house. From all I can hear, the abbess and her successor were true Christian women according to their lights, and so, I am sure, were our own dear lady and most of the family in my day.

But troublous times were at hand. The Port Royalists, or Jansenists, as they came to be called, got into difficulty with the government and with the Jesuits, who carried things with a high hand in France, as, indeed, they do still, by all accounts. The whole family of the Mother Angelique, with all who adhered to them, were pronounced heretical, disobedient to the Pope, and altogether reprobate, and various bulls and proclamations were issued against them by Pope and archbishop, king and council.

Our house suffered with the rest, for the sake of the opinions which they refused to renounce. Their revenues were pillaged, their lands confiscated, their old priest and confessor was thrown into prison, where he died; and though the sisters were allowed to retain possession of their house and garden and enough land to raise a little corn and oil and to pasture a few cows and sheep, it was rather on sufferance and because they were under the protection of that same noble family of Crequi, which happened to be in high favor at court.

Such was the state of things in my day. The house was almost ruinous, and the vineyard, the olive orchard, and all together, furnished us with a scanty subsistence. True, we children and the young novices always had enough to eat, such as it was; but I fancy the Abbess and the elder nuns kept more fasts than were in the calendar, while their robes bore the marks of much careful mending and darning. Be this as it might, I never heard a complaint. The good ladies were as cheerful as possible, and in their hours of recreation would laugh and frolic like school girls. They had formerly taught a little school for the children of the neighboring village, and a few still came, almost by stealth, to receive instruction in religion and needlework, and such other things as were considered fit for them. We were not permitted to mix with these children; but we knew them all by sight, and we were allowed to make little presents for them, such as pincushions, caps, and aprons.

As I remember it now, I believe the ladies lived in perpetual expectation of being turned out on the world or shut up in convents of some other order; but they did not allow their fear to hinder them in the discharge of their duties, or what they believed to be such. How many times I have wished that these poor souls could have come under the influence of such preachers and teachers as we have had of late years in England. What a difference would the doctrines of free grace and salvation have made in their lives.

[CHAPTER II.]

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

I WAS born in England about the year 1728 as nearly as I can find out. My mother was first cousin to Lady Leighton, and married a gentleman of her own name, who for love of her, forsook his native county and bought a small estate not far from the Scottish border in Northumberland.

My mother had twins about the time that Lady Leighton died, and as only one of the babes lived, she was easily persuaded to give the vacant place to the little motherless Amabel, the daughter of her nearest and dearest friend.

Sir Julius loved his beautiful young wife, and after she was taken away, he could at first hardly endure the sight of her child. He had been left with a large fortune and an unencumbered estate by his father, who had been a prudent gentleman and a great man of business. But Sir Julius was as I fancy very unlike the old gentlemen in every respect. He liked living in London better than in Northumberland, and spending money better than saving it. Moreover he was a hot Jacobite and soon got into trouble with the existing Government by engaging in some of the numerous plots of the time.

It was in the same year that my father was killed by a fall from his horse while helping to rescue some poor creatures from a sudden inundation. It became needful for Sir Julius to go abroad and leave his affairs in the hands of certain family connections less loyal or more prudent than himself. Nothing would serve but he must take his daughter with him, and as my mother had lost her only ties to life in England, she was easily persuaded to go along. Sir Julius lived for a year or two in the neighborhood of Toulon on a small estate owned by the Marquis de Crequi, who was some sort of a relation. Then my mother died, and Sir Julius placed us two little children in the Abbey of St. Jean de Crequi, which was at that time in a somewhat more prosperous condition than I remember it afterward.

Sir Julius entered some foreign service for a while, and then his peace was made at home and he returned to England, where he married a very rich wife and had two or three children. But he allowed his daughter and myself, her foster-sister, to remain at the convent till we were all but grown up, remitting with more or less regularity money to pay for our board and education. Why he did so I don't pretend to know unless as I think probable he was as much afraid of his second wife as he was afterward of his third. Of course, I remember nothing of all this nor did I learn much of it till after our return to England.

As I said, my first distinct recollection is of tumbling into the fountain well and being fished out by mother Prudentia. But I used to have dim and fleeting visions of a very different home—of an old timbered house and a great apple orchard loaded with fruit, and a tall, bluff man holding me up to gather a golden mellow apple with my own hands. As to our journey and the events of our short residence in France, my mind is all a blank. I seem to myself to have waked up in the old abbey at a time when I was old enough to climb up the great stairway on my hands and knees and sometimes to be carried in arms, though I think that privilege oftener belonged to Amabel who was rather a delicate child, while I was as strong as a little donkey.

We were very happy together, Amabel and I. No difference was made between us in any respect that I remember. We learned the same things, dressed in the same way, and slept in the same kind of little white covered beds in our own corner of the dormitory. There were three or four other pupils, but they were all but one, very much older than ourselves—quite young ladies in fact.

Dénice was our only playmate. I don't know what her other name was or whether she had any, but I have fancied since that she might have been a daughter of some unhappy Protestant family, torn from her parents by the cruel hand of persecutors and shut up at St. Jean to be made a good Catholic. Such things were common enough in those days. She was a thin dark child, shy and shrinking in her manners with her elders, but a capital playfellow and the best of story tellers. She was three or four years older than Amabel and myself, and had great influence over us, which she always used for good. A better child never breathed, and her early death was my first real grief.

Our household consisted, beside the pupils whom I have mentioned, of about eighteen members in all—

First of course came the Abbess. She was a middle-aged lady when I first knew her, and very handsome but worn with cares, fasts, and vigils, and so bent she looked much beyond her real age. I have nothing but good to say of her. I think it likely from what I now remember that she was not without a tinge of that spiritual pride which is nurtured by nothing more than by the voluntary humiliations required by the Roman church within all religious persons so-called. But as a ruler of her family, nobody could be more just, firm, and kind. She allowed herself no indulgences that were not shared by the rest of the community, and as I believe often denied herself absolutely necessary food and clothing to add to the comfort of the old and feeble members of the household. She was an excellent manager, overseeing everything, yet not like many notable women wasting her time in doing work which belonged to other people. While I believe she knew to a single olive and a single ounce of wool everything which her fields produced, she did not interfere vexatiously with the sisters who had charge of these things, but allowed them to manage in their own way. We little ones went to her for an hour every day to receive a special religious instruction, and she used to make these hours very pleasant, dismissing us usually with a bit of cake or fruit or some other little treat. We children at least adored her.

Next came the Mother Assistant, who was Mother Superior's right hand in all that pertained to the management of the house and farm, though I do not think there was much sympathy between them in other things. Mother Assistant was a narrow-minded woman, to whom the framework of religion was everything. She had a particular and fanatical devotion to the Saints, which was not, or so I think, the case with Mother Superior. I have an idea that she was annoyed at the state of ostracism, so to speak, in which we lived, and that she would not have been sorry to return to the old ways, and make, peace with the Church and the archbishop; but, of course, this is only an impression, such as young folks often pick up concerning their elders. She was not fond of children, and I don't think there was any love lost between us.

Then came several other officers.

The Mother Sacristine, who had the whole charge of the Church, the vestments, etc. And many a weary hour did the good mother spend in darning rent hangings and moth-eaten altar cloths (for these little pests have no more respect for the ante-pendium of an altar than for an old laborer's Sunday coat), and trying to furbish up the once rich vestments which would never look anything but faded and shabby after all her pains.

The Mother Bursar had charge of the purse and the money, when there was any. She had, as I think, only one serious worry in life, and that was, that fast as she might, she would always look fat and jolly, her cheeks and chin would always be rosy, and her face break into dimples whenever she smiled, which was very often. As to the perennial want of money, she regarded that, not as a worry, but as a cross, which is a very different matter.

Mother Prudentia was mistress of the novices, and of us young ones as well. She was a good woman, according to her lights, as the abbess herself, very fond of young people, and rather too much given to indulging them, if anything. Certainly, we children had very easy times with her. She was a born gossip, and loved nothing better than to gather us round her and tell us tales by the hour, of Mother Angelique, her work and her trials, of the Mother Perpetua, who instituted the reform, of endless saints and martyrs, of various mothers and sisters whom she had known, and sometimes, also, of giants, dwarfs, fairies, and the like. We had a certain feeling that these latter tales were a kind of contraband goods, and I fear we did not like them the less on that account.

Our sisters were, I suppose, much like any other collection of ladies of the same age and breeding, except that the sense of living under the ban of persecution and suffering for the truth's sake gave a kind of elevation to their characters not always found in convents. Mother Prudentia once told me that, at a visitation made by the Bishop or some other great functionary, the nuns then in the convent had been offered the choice of entering any other religious house they pleased; but not a single one had availed herself of the permission.

The good ladies kept their hours very strictly, revered the constitutions and rules of their order as much as the Scripture itself, or perhaps a little more, considering that they knew a good deal more about them, sang endless litanies and read all the books they had. In their hours of labor they worked in the garden and orchard, made beautiful cakes and sweetmeats (I only wish I had Sister Lazarus' receipt book), and were especially famous for their candied fruits, very few of which were ever tasted within the convent walls.

They did a great deal of embroidery and made lovely lace with the needle. Mother Angelique had disapproved of fancy-work, but the lace and embroidery were too important as sources of revenue to be disregarded. Now and then a sister disappeared for a few days, and then it was understood that she was in retreat,—that is, she shut herself up for a special season of fasting and prayer. The rules of convents are such that one may live in a religious house as a pupil for years and yet know very little of the interior workings of the family; but we were so few in number, and so poor withal, that we were thrown very much together.

The three elder pupils mostly kept by themselves, and we saw very little of any of them except Desireè. She would sometimes condescend to play with us, and usually ended by leading us into some scrape. She was the only one destined by her friends for the veil, and certainly she had the least vocation for a religious life. Marguerite and Athenais were grave, serious-minded girls, and would, I think, gladly have remained in the house; but their friends had different views for them, and they were taken away to be married.

I have said the house was a large one, and had once been very magnificent. There were two long rows of cells for the nuns, who formerly numbered fifty or sixty. There was a range of superb apartments formerly allotted to the abbess, but they were shut up and disused. The house was built around two courts, which were connected by a tall Gothic arch. The court, about which were the offices and the rooms in which we lived, was paved with fine slabs of marble, many of which, in my time, were cracked, broken, and displaced.

The fountain, in which I took my involuntary bath, stood in the centre, and was, as I remembered it, a very curious piece of workmanship. It was a great round basin, supported on a short stem, and was covered on the outside with sculpture. The figures were worn with time and weather; but one could easily trace cupids, dancing girls, and figures with goats' feet, all intermixed with garlands of leaves and flowers. The basin was always filled with clear cool water, which had its source somewhere in the hills back of the house, and which ran out of a conduit pipe into a paved channel, and so into the mountain stream which watered our garden.

On one side of the court was the church and a chapel, which last was mostly used nowadays, the sacristy and other apartments belonging thereto. Joining the church at right angles were the refectory and parlors and the rooms used by the present abbess, or Superior, as she preferred to be called, and other apartments, whose use, if they had any, I knew not, for I never saw them opened in my time. On the third side were the different offices and various storerooms for wood, charcoal, etc., as well as for the products of the farm. Above these were the ranges of cells, most of which stood empty, except for some small remains of furniture.

The outer court was, as I have said, the cemetery for the sisters, though I hardly think they could all have been buried there. It was marked by no stones except the marble cross in the centre, and the grass grew with rank luxuriance over the sunken mounds which marked the resting-places of the dead. Around this court, also, ran a range of cloisters, all paved with marble and adorned with carving of beautiful design. But here, also, the pavement was broken and the ornaments falling to decay. Here, as I have said, were situated the private apartments of the old abbesses, and others which were used for guest chambers under the old regime, but which were now always shut up and locked. How we used to wish we could see these rooms, which we thought must be very magnificent!

In one corner of this court was a very deep and disused well, into which we used to look with wonder and awe. When the sun was in the right direction it was possible, by gazing intently, to discern, about half way down, the remains of a very rude and narrow spiral stairway, which went winding down into the darkness. We used to drop little pebbles into this well, and listen, with breathless expectation, for the hollow resounding splash in the unseen waters below. Mother Prudentia used to say that this place was not really a well, but a disused entrance to certain very deep and extensive caverns below the house.

Only two sides of this court were surrounded with buildings. The others were formed by the walls which separated it from the inner court on one side and the gardens on the other. The cloisters, however, ran all around, and were famous places to play in on wet days.

The garden was beautiful. It lay on a sunny slope facing the south, and was well sheltered from the cruel winds which sometimes visit that part of the country. I never saw elsewhere such banks of violets and thickets of roses and jasmine. There were old, old orange trees, all gnarled and rough, but bearing the sweetest of thin-skinned fruit. There were tuberoses and great bushes of lavender and rosemary, and more flowers than I can remember, and caper plants growing in the old ruined brickwork, fragments of which peeped everywhere, and gay Lent lilies, and clumps of tall white ones, which we used to consider specially sacred to the Virgin. Oh, I cannot pretend to enumerate the charms of that garden.

There was a fish-pond, which we little ones were forbidden to approach, and a lovely little brook full of minnows and other interesting creatures, where we used to get into disgrace by dabbling and wetting our feet and our pinafores. Here were our own gardens, where we each had a currant bush, and where we raised flowers and salads, and now and then a melon. Happy she whose salad or melon was considered good enough for the Reverend Mother's table. I don't believe the dear lady was very fond of melons, but she used to accept them graciously, and ceremoniously ask our permission, which of course we always gave, to divide the treat with the other mothers and sisters.

I must not forget the potage, or herb garden, where grew salads and pulse of many sorts, endive and parsley, sweet herbs and garlic, beside such grand cucumbers, great gourds and melons, and such scarlet love apples as one never sees in England. I don't wonder that the children of Israel hankered after such things in the midst of the desert. I should like to see a roasted gourd myself once more. Here was a great range of bee-hives, which were the special care of Sister Baptista.

Beyond the garden were the olive orchard and the fields belonging to the house, where we were never allowed to go by ourselves. Here were pastured our three cows, whose produce made a good part of our living. Just outside the pasture lived an old laboring man, who, with his wife and his lame son, did all the work of the farm which was too hard for the sisters. We were, for some reason or other, dreadfully afraid of this old man, though he never did anything worse than make faces at us, which I don't think he could help, and laugh a queer shrill laugh when we ran away from him.

Beyond these fields was a valley, through which ran a stream, usually nearly dry in summer, though it was a hoarse roaring torrent in winter. Beyond this rose high rather barren hills.

On the other side of the house was a narrow court, also paved, where we never set foot, and a high wall spiked on the top. The house had no windows on the lower floor on this side, but there were several on the floor above.

One of these was accessible to us, being in a sort of disused oratory—or so I judge from what furniture remained to it—and was a great resort of Amabel's and mine. From it see could see the land, which fell off very rapidly, and, beyond, the blue sea dotted with sails. Amabel used to point southward, and say that we had come across the sea, and that our home was "over there." Of course, she was mistaken, for the land on the other side was Africa, as I now know, where the poor blackamoors come from; but we used to like to look at it and fancy sometimes that we saw a little bit of England.

[CHAPTER III.]

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

THERE could hardly be two people more differently constituted than Amabel Leighton and myself, which is perhaps one reason why we have continued such fast friends all through life. I was always well and strong, able to bear fatigue, and caring nothing for any danger that I could see. At the same time, I was dreadfully afraid of all the creatures and powers of darkness, and still more afraid of being found fault with or laughed at, not only by people whom I loved and respected, but by those for whom I didn't care a rush.

Amabel, on the contrary, was delicate in body, shrinking from exertion or exposure. She was very timid. She was afraid, even, of our own petted cows, till she learned to milk that she might help Sister Lazarus; and she was terrified at our big watch dog, which adored her, and would wag his tail at the most distant glimpse of her.

"Why do you pat Arslan when you are so afraid of him?" asked Mother Prudentia one day, when she saw Amabel caressing the dog's great square head, while he licked her hand in an ecstasy.

"Because, dear Mother, he wagged his tail at me, and I don't like to hurt his feelings," answered the dear child, half sobbing. "You know you said we should never hurt people's feeling if we could help it."

Desireè, who was near, laughed her little sneering laugh.

"A dog is not people—he is only a brute beast!" said she.

"Arslan is a great deal more like people than some girls I know!" said I, hotly resentful both for Arslan and Amabel.

"Tut, tut, little pepper pot!" said the mother, smiling at my vehemence. "A dog is not people, but he has affections, and I am glad my little Aimeè regards them. If we thought always as tenderly as thou of the feelings of our friends, it would be all easy world to live in."

This little incident is a good specimen of Amabel. Timid as she was, if she once made up her mind that a certain course was right, she would pursue it through thick and thin. But while no amount of laughing or teasing would make her do what was wrong, she was sometimes led by her affection for me to join in projects which brought us both into trouble and disgrace. I remember one instance in particular, which came near being very serious in its consequences.

I have said that there was an extensive range of unused apartments on one side of the cemetery. They were commonly kept locked up, but one day as we three young ones were playing in the cloister, Mother Bursar came out with a bunch of keys and proceeded to unlock the grand entrance.

We clustered round her and watched with much interest the opening of the great two leaved portal.

"So! I suppose you are all dying of curiosity to see these wonderful rooms," said Mother Bursar, smiling at our eager faces. "Well you may follow me if you will keep close behind me and touch nothing. But mind you do not slip away, for the rooms and passages are many and you might be lost or have a fall. The floors are not as good as they might be."

We eagerly availed ourselves of the permission and with many exclamations of wonder followed Mother Bursar into the great hall and through the apartments opening from it. These rooms had once been splendidly decorated with carving and painting, and enough still remained to show that the subjects of the paintings were not always religious by any means. Some furniture was still standing about, here a great cushioned chair, there a cabinet once gay with inlaid ivory and gilding, or a Persian rug eaten with the moths.

"Why does not dear mother have some of these pretty things in her own room?" I ventured to ask as I paused before a beautiful table with cupids and birds inlaid all over it.

"Dear mother does not care for such things, my child!" answered Mother Bursar. "They are not fit for one who has renounced the world. But we are going to overlook all the hangings and curtains and see if we can make any of them over into bed coverings for some of the poor people, and for our own beds as well. Come now, troop out little ones. I have opened the windows to let in the air and shall leave them for a while, till the place is freshened up."

"Let us stay here and look at the pictures on the walls, dear mother!" begged Amabel, who loved everything beautiful. "We will not go into any other rooms."

"Very well!" said Mother Bursar, who was always indulgent and who knew that Amabel and Dénice at least could be trusted. "Mind you stay here in the hall and go no where else, above all do not venture up the stairs."

Mother Bursar went away and left us and we were busy studying the story of Joseph and his family on the painted wall, when Desireè came stealing in.

"So here are all the good little girls!" said she. "All busy breaking rules. I wonder what Mother Prudentia will say to that."

"We are not breaking rules as it happens," I answered warmly as usual. "Mother Bursar gave us leave to stay here and look at the pictures till she came back. There are much prettier pictures in the other rooms but we must not go there," I added rather regretfully, remembering the beautiful ladies dancing under the trees which I had seen within.

"How do you know about the pictures if you must not go there!" asked Desireè. "Aha, Miss Lucille, I have caught you this time!"

"You have done nothing of the sort," said I. "Mother Bursar let us accompany her through the rooms but she said we must go no where else without her."

Desireè went and looked through the open doors, and even ventured a few steps into the room, but soon returned. I fancy she was afraid.

"And where does this go?" she asked, turning to a little door opening under the great stairs.

"I don't know, I never noticed it!" I answered.

"It does not matter where it goes, since we are not to leave this hall!" said Amabel. "Don't touch it, Desireè."

"I shall not ask your leave, Misè!" returned Desireè, still working at the door.

I suppose the lock was rusted, for it yielded in her hand, and she opened it. Amabel and myself came behind her and looked. The door opened on a stone stair, which led downward. It was dark at first, but gazing steadfastly we could discern a dim light below. A damp, mouldy air blew in our faces. I shuddered, I knew not why, and turned away.

"Look at her. She pretends to fear nothing, and she is scared at the very sight of this old hole!" said Desireè. "Now I will wager anything that she would never dare go down these stairs and walk twenty paces away from them!" And Desireè laughed scornfully.

"Whether she is afraid or not, she must not do it!" said Dénice. "The Mother Bursar has forbidden it."

"She did not forbid it—she said nothing about it!" said I.

"She forbade us to leave the hall, and that is enough!" retorted Dénice.

But Desireè persisted in daring me to descend the stairs, and at last I was just foolish enough to undertake it. Amabel strove with tears in her eyes to dissuade me, but seeing that I was determined, she expressed her intention of going with me.

"Don't go, oh, don't go!" pleaded Dénice; but, seeing us both preparing to descend, she suddenly pulled herself free from Desireè, who was holding her fast, and ran out of the hall.

The stairs were sound enough, but slippery with damp and mould. They landed us in a very small square apartment, lighted by a grating close to the top. From this room, long, dark passages led away in two or three directions. I must confess, I was dreadfully scared, but Desireè's taunts had roused my pride, and I walked firmly on down one of the long alleys. I remember just how soft and velvety the ground felt under my feet, and how our footsteps yet seemed to wake a strange echo, as if some one were coming to meet us.

"There, you have walked twenty steps," said Amabel. "Now let us turn round."

"Just a few more, to be sure," said I.

I took a step or two more, but was checked by a sort of suppressed cry from Amabel.

"O Lucy, I cannot see the light at all!"

I turned round quickly enough at that. Sure enough, no light was to be seen. We were in total darkness.

"The passage must wind a little," said I. "Let us go back. We shall soon see the light from the passage-way."

I took her cold, damp hand in mine, and we turned back. But, alas! when we had taken more than twenty steps, twice told, no light was to be seen.

"Lucy," said Amabel in a whisper, "Lucy, we are lost!"

"Nonsense!" said I, angrily. "How could we be lost? We have taken the wrong turn, that is all! Let us try to go back."

And so we did; but the obscurity was still the same—thick, black darkness, that could be felt.

"We are lost!" repeated Amabel, with a curious kind of coolness. "There is no use in denying it, Lucy. No doubt there are many branching passages, and we took the wrong one."

"I am afraid we are, and it is all the fault of that hateful Desireè!" said I, beginning to cry. "Only for her, we should never have come."

"She could not have made us come," replied Amabel. "No, Lucy, let us blame nobody but ourselves. We have been very naughty, indeed, and we may as well own it."

"You were not naughty. You only came because I did," I sobbed, as we still hurried on, we knew not whither. "And I wouldn't care if it was only myself; though I know I should die, if I were here alone. But what shall we do?"

"We must not go a step more in this way, that is certain!" said Amabel, stopping short at last. "Lucy, don't you feel how wet and soft the ground is getting under our feet? Let us turn exactly round, so as to face the other way."

We did so, and none too soon, for the ground was, indeed, growing very soft; and, as it was, I got out with the loss of one shoe. We walked back till we came to firm ground, and then Amabel stopped again, holding me tightly by the hand, as I would have gone on.

"Do not let us take another step," said she. "We only go farther astray. Let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then keep still till some one comes."

"No one will ever come!" said I despairingly. "Desireè will not tell, for fear of being punished; and we shall perish here alone, unless we are torn in pieces by some of the dreadful creatures that live in such places."

For we children, one and all were firmly persuaded that the cellars were the haunts of all sorts of Bogeys.

"God and the Holy Virgin will take care of us," said Amabel. "Some one is sure to come. Dénice will tell, if no one else does; and, besides Mother Bursar will guess. Come, let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then call as loud as we can."

We said our prayers, and then began to call loudly for help; but none came for a long time, or so it seemed to us. We found afterwards that it was about two hours. The sisters, it seems, were at "obedience," which is the hour when they all meet in the superior's room to give an account of their employments and hear whatever she had to say to them. And Dénice could find no one to whom she could tell her story. It may be guessed that the hours seemed much longer to us poor young things.

"It is of no use," said I, despairingly, at last. "It must be midnight by this time. They are not coming, or they cannot find us."

"They will surely come," said Amabel, firmly. "They can track us by our steps, the ground is so soft." She paused a moment, and then began, in her pure, sweet voice to chant the Miserere.

"Have mercy upon me, O Lord!"

How the words rung and echoed through those dismal vaults, and came back to us multiplied and changed by the echoes, till it seemed as if something or somebody was mocking us. I stopped once or twice; but Amabel sang on, holding my hand fast all the while. She told me afterward her chief fear was that I should break away from her in my terror, and that we should lose one another.

We were just finishing the psalm, when Amabel's grasp on my hand tightened. I opened my eyes, which I had closed for a few moments, and saw a gleam of light. It flickered for a moment, glanced on the moist stones, and vanished.

"What is it?" I whispered. "A death-light!"

"Some one looking for us!" she replied.

And, sure enough, in another moment a well-known voice called, "Children, where are you?"

"Here, mother!" we both cried out at once; and I started to my feet and would have run forward, but Amabel checked me.

"Wait!" said she. "Wait till we see the light, or we may be lost again."

It could have been but a short time, but it seemed endless, till the voice called again, "Children!"

And, joy of joys! We saw the light once more, and two dark figures coming through the gloom.

"Here, dear mother, here we are!" cried Amabel, for I could not make a sound; and in a moment more we were in the arms of the Superior and Mother Prudentia.

"Thank God, they are safe!" said the dear lady. "I feared we should have much more trouble in finding them. Hold the light well up, dear sister, and we will follow you. It will not do to miss our way again."

Mother Prudentia went first with the light, and we followed, each clinging to a hand of Mother Superior. As we passed along, and I saw how many branching passages and alleys there were, I could not wonder that we had missed our way.

At the entrance of one of the broadest of these, Mother Prudentia stopped short and, with a look I shall never forget, pointed out something on the ground to Mother Superior. I looked, but saw only the impress of our own wet and muddy footsteps upon the mouldy floor.

"Holy Virgin!" said Mother Prudentia. "Surely you did not go down there!"

"I don't know. I suppose so," answered Amabel, wearily, for she was not strong, and was growing very tired. "We went somewhere where the ground was all soft, and we began to sink in, and Lucy lost her shoes. Then we turned round and ran, till we came to where you found us."

"Thank Heaven!" said the Superior again; and not another word was spoken till we reached the upper air, where Mother Bursar and the Mother Assistant, with two or three other elders, were waiting.

Never in my life shall I forget how marvellously beautiful everything looked as we came out into the court. And how sweet was the breath of the summer air! It was like a vision of the new Heaven and the new earth to the redeemed soul.

The sisters gathered round us with many exclamations, but we were allowed to speak to no one. We were hurried off to the infirmary and popped into bed, with plenty of blankets, and enjoined to lie still. We were no sooner deposited than Sister Lazarus appeared with a jug of steaming hot soup and two little basins.

"There, drink your soup directly," said she, pouring it out. "You will get your deaths of cold, and so will dear Mother, and how you will feel then, naughty children! There, don't cry, poor dears, but take your soup good and hot."

"But this is meat soup," said Amabel. "Isn't this Friday?"

"No, of course not, child! It is Thursday. Did not you have meat for your dinners?"

"Thursday?" said Amabel, wonderingly. "Why, surely, it is not the same day that we were looking at the pictures in the great hall. Have we been in that place only one day?"

"You have been gone only two or three hours," replied Mother Prudentia. "You followed Mother Bursar into the hall a little while after noon, and it is now just time for vespers. There, eat your soup, and do not talk."

We ate our soup, as we were bid, and then lay down. I soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which I waked many times crying and calling upon Amabel and Mother Prudentia. I took a severe cold, and Amabel was stiff and feverish; so that we were kept in bed for two or three days.

When we were quite well again, Mother Superior sent for us to her room and talked to us kindly, but very gravely, about our fault. Amabel, who was the least to blame of the two, said not a word in her own defence, but tried timidly to excuse me, on the ground that Desireè had dared me to do what I did.

"And do you consider that any excuse, my Aimeè, or does Lucille herself think so?" asked the lady, turning her penetrating eyes upon me. She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw—clear gray, with very dilating pupils—and I used to believe she could read my very thoughts.

In my heart of hearts, I did think Desireè's conduct formed some excuse for me, but I dared not say so.

"Suppose, my child, that Desireè had dared you to steal something out of Mother Bursar's purse, or to murder her!"

"But that would be impossible, Reverend Mother," I faltered, thinking only of the murder, though I might well have included the other.

"Suppose it possible! Would the fact that you had been dared to do it excuse you?"

"No, Reverend Mother, but—"

"You pride yourself very much on your courage, my child," continued the lady; "but the fact is, that, in some respects, you are an arrant coward, and that cowardice is at the bottom of almost every serious fault you commit."

She had touched me now. I felt my cheek flame, while my lips framed the denial I dared not utter.

"Why did you feel obliged to commit an act of disobedience, to break a promise and run into danger?" asked the lady. "Tell me." Then, as I did not answer—"Speak at once, my Lucille. Was it not because you were afraid that Desireè would laugh at you?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother," I answered, feeling very small indeed in my own eyes.

"Ah, my child, that is the very worst kind of cowardice. 'The fear of man bringeth a snare,' the Scripture saith. How are you to go through life, or what account will you have to give in at the last great day if, even within the shelter of these sacred walls you can be drawn to sin and danger by dread of the laugh of a person whom you neither love nor respect. You will meet many people in this world who will laugh at you for desiring to do right and refusing to go with a multitude to do evil. Such people are the devil's own instruments for the ensnaring of timid souls, and, unless you are prepared to withstand them, there is no telling to what crime or folly you may not be driven. Aimeè erred through her affection to you, and she was very wrong, but I think your fault was the worse of the two."

She paused a little, I fancy to observe the effect of her words.

Amabel was dissolved in tears; but I stood with red cheeks, twisting the corner of my apron and looking, I dare say, as I felt, a very naughty, obstinate little girl indeed.

"I shall say no more at present," said the lady, after a few minutes' silence. "And as you have already suffered severely, I shall lay but one penance upon you, and that is, to go with Mother Prudentia and myself and see the danger you have escaped."

"Please, dear, Reverend Mother, don't make Amabel go!" I ventured to say, feeling how she trembled. In my own heart, I was rather pleased with the idea of seeing the place again.

"I want to go if Lucille does," sobbed Amabel.

"You shall both go," answered the lady. "Have no fear. There is no danger to one who knows the way and how far to go. Stay here till I return."

She left us alone for a few minutes. Amabel fell on her knees before the crucifix. I did the same, and repeated the prayers after her, but my heart was not in them. I was decidedly elated at the prospect of our adventure. It was not long before the lady returned accompanied by Mother Prudentia. Each of the ladies carried a lantern, and Mother Prudentia had our cloaks on her arm.

The Superior led the way, not that we had gone before, but through the upper corridor and several disused apartments, where the shutters were all closed and the air smelt strongly of the wool, the oil, and cheese which were stored in the rooms below. At last we came into the older part of the house, descended the great stairs which Mother Bursar had so strictly forbidden us to go up, and found ourselves in the painted hall, from which we descended the stone stairs to the little vestibule. I observed by the way that a strong new lock had already been put upon this door.

Here we stopped while Mother Prudentia put on our cloaks and gave us each a taper to carry. She then took Amabel by the hand, and Mother Superior did the same by me, and we moved forward without speaking.

I had my wits about me this time, and I saw in what a network of passages and alleys we had been involved. The marks of our footsteps were still to be seen in the thick black mould which covered the ground. The walls, which seemed of solid rock, streamed with moisture and were hung in places with strange unwholesome growths. I felt my courage slipping away from me, as the thought would come into my mind—What if Mother Superior should herself lose her way! How we were guided, I do not know—probably by some marks or signs on the walls.

At last, the Superior stopped and made a sign to Mother Prudentia. The lanterns were trimmed anew, Mother Superior once more took me by the hand, and bidding me hold up my taper and not take one step in advance of her, we moved cautiously on for some yards. Then we stopped again, and the lady held up her lantern, as did the other mother.

"Look, my children!" said she solemnly. "Look and see the danger from which you were preserved."

I looked, and saw a sight I shall never forget,—a black, sullen, horrible pool, stretching far away out of our sight. The border of the pool was edged with slime, which shone with rainbow colors in the light of the lanterns, and the same slime floated in great patches on the surface of the water. We were not very near—not so near as Amabel and I had gone, for I could see our footmarks beyond us—but the ground felt wet and cold, and when I raised my foot something seemed to hold it down. I shuddered. If we had gone but a little farther—

"Look well, my children, and never forget that sight," said the lady, solemnly. "Let that pit represent to you the pit of destruction to which every wilful unrepented sin is a step. See how treacherous are its very shores. A very little farther, and you would have been sucked down into its foul depths, from which nothing ever comes up again. And in this pit, my poor Lucille, you might have been lying at this moment, led thither by what? By the idle laughter of a wicked fool!"

I realized it all then.

"Oh, I have been very, very wicked!" I cried. "I don't care so much about myself, but if I had drowned Aimeè!"

And then I stopped, terrified, and clung to the lady's arm, for my words came back to me from over that dreadful water with a wild tone of mockery.

"Fear nothing. It is but the echo," said the lady.

She picked up a small pebble from the floor and threw it far into the water. Never shall I forget the awful hollow reverberations which followed. I never heard another such sound.

"The water is very high," said Mother Prudentia, sadly looking at the Superior. "I never saw it come so far or rise so high in the well as it does now."

"The will of Heaven be done!" answered the lady. "Come, we must not stay longer here. I think our little ones will never forget this lesson."

We hurried back carefully observing our way, at least the elders did, and were soon once more in the Superior's apartments.

I was humbled enough now. I saw my fault in its true colors, and confessed it. We were forgiven and dismissed and the matter was never alluded to again, for it was not our dear mother's way to return to old troubles.

I think now that the experiment was rather a dangerous one. Some children might have been scared by it into a fever if nothing worse. But I do believe that it was the beginning of all that is good in me. I never lost the vivid impression made on me by the sight of those dark waters, and the lady's solemn words, "That is the pit of destruction and every wilful and unrepented sin is a step toward it."

I saw that the mother's words were true and that while I flattered myself with the idea of my courage, I was in fact a real coward. I made up my mind that I would never again be laughed into doing what I knew was wrong and foolish, and if I have ever done so since, I have at least sinned with my eyes open.

I had of course very imperfect and even false ideas of religion at that time, but I knew enough to know that I must have help from outside of myself to do anything that was good, and I prayed for that help and doubtless received it.

One day when we two were alone with mother Prudentia, helping her with some herbs she was drying, I ventured to ask mother, "What was the use of those great vaults and how they came there?"

"That is more than any one knows, child!" answered the mother, who, as I said, dearly loved to tell a story. "Some say they are the quarries from whence were taken the stones to build the house. Some, our good old Father confessor among them, that they are much older than that, and that they are the remains of a Roman or heathen temple Which used to stand in this place, as are also the bits of old brick wall which cumber our garden. He was a great scholar, was Pere La Roche. As to their use, I don't know that they have any. No body knows how far they extend for no one has ever gone to the end of them. So you see even if you had not fallen into the water, you might have wandered away and never have been found again."

"I should think they would have the door built up!" said Amabel. "Is there any other entrance but by which we went down?"

"Yes, two or three from the vaults under the offices, but they are all securely fastened up. Nobody ever goes into them but the Superior and Mother Assistant or myself once a year."

"And why do you do that?" I asked.

"You ask too many questions, child, you will never do for a nun! I am sure I don't know why, only that it is one of our rules!" said Mother Prudentia, reproving my curiosity and satisfying it at the same time: "A good religious obeys and never asks why."

"I just want one question more!" said Amabel, who had hitherto left the conversation mostly to me. "What did you mean by saying that the water was very high? I know it is high in the well, for I looked this afternoon, and it is nearer the top of the steps than I ever saw it before."

"Is it?" asked Mother Prudentia with a startled look—then once more sinking her voice—

"It is said that the rise of those dark waters portends misfortune to our house. Once—how many years ago I don't know, but it was very many—that well overflowed so that a stream ran down into the brook in the garden and poisoned the water so that everything along its banks died—and that year a fever or plague broke out in the house and every member of the family died, except the abbess and two sisters. But I will not have you looking into the well. There is a very damp unwholesome air rising from it. Now wash your hands and bring your work, and I will tell you a true tale about St. Helena, and if the work is well done—who knows whether there may not be some comfits in a cupboard somewhere?"

I think after the lesson we had received, we should have obeyed Mother Prudentia at any rate, but we had no chance to do otherwise, for the very next day, a heavy wooden covering was placed over the old well, which was never removed while we remained at St. Jean.

I should say that Desireè was as severely punished as Amabel and myself. She flatly denied at first having anything to do with the matter—then she said it was I who had opened the door, and that she had tried to prevent me. But the united testimony of Amabel and Dénise prevailed, and she was put in penitence for two or three days and carefully watched afterward for a long time.

[CHAPTER IV.]

TROUBLES.

IT was I think, about a year after our adventures in the caverns, that Dénise died. She was the only pupil left except Amabel, Desireè and myself—Desireè affected great devotion about that time, and Mother Prudentia rejoiced over her as a brand plucked from the burning; but I think Mother Superior considered her a brand that would bear watching—as indeed she was, and one that was destined to kindle a great fire.

Dénise had always been a delicate girl, more so even than Amabel herself. She would never allow that she was ill, however, and used to join in all our sports and latterly made herself very useful in the house and garden. She was one of those people for whom everything will grow, and she loved flowers with an absolute passion. But by and by, she began to grow thin and to have a very little cough. She had a lovely complexion which seemed to grow more beautiful day by day, and her eyes were brighter than ever. We noticed that she became rather silent, though she was always cheerful—and we were sometimes inclined to murmur when Mother Prudentia excused her from one duty after another, and Sister Lazarus cooked all sorts of nice things for her, whereas our own table grew plainer all the time.

But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be considered a dying person.

"If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will be done."

"Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked.

"She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave this world."

The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter and the mornings were dark and cold.

"Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked Amabel in a low tone.

She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the others did.

"I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?"

"Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one about the Lord being a Shepherd."

"That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I.

"Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?"

"Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all, though I often try to do so."

"I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment."

"I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do if he were to send for us to come back to England?"

"We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel.

"And then should we have to become Protestants?"

"I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose whatever they might do."

"Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.

"I have sometimes thought he must be, or he would not have left us here to be educated!" replied Amabel. "But we need not borrow trouble, Lucy. Perhaps he may never send for us. I should like that best—to live here always and become a religious, would not you?"

"I should like to do so if you did!" I answered truly enough, for imagination was not strong enough to picture for myself a life apart from Amabel. "But sometimes I think I should like to see what the world is like, especially England. Perhaps the Protestants are not all so bad after all!" And here I stopped and looked about me rather alarmed, lest my audacious remark should have been overheard.

"I am sure our mother was not bad!" said Amabel. "She used to teach us to say our prayers at her knees."

"How I wish I could remember her as you do!" said I, enviously. "I wonder why I cannot!"

"I heard Mother Prudentia say once that you were very ill when you came here and for some time after—perhaps that is the reason!" answered Amabel, and then recurring to our sick play fellow. "How strange and sad it will seem not to have Dénise."

"I can't bear to think of it!" said I, beginning to cry. "She has played with us ever since I remember. It was she who told Mother Superior about our going into the cavern, and only for her we might have died there, for I am sure Desireè would never have told!"

"Not she!" said Amabel with decision. "She would not care if the whole family perished, so she were safe. Lucy, that girl is a hypocrite!"

"You should not say so—she is very devout," said I; for I rather believed in Desireè's conversion, though I am afraid I did not like her any the better for it.

"Devout or not, she is a hypocrite!" persisted Amabel in a tone which surprised me. I had never heard her speak so bitterly, and indeed she rarely spoke ill of any one. "She despises dear Mother Prudentia, whose shoes she is not fit to carry, and she hates Mother Superior. I have seen the looks she casts at them when she thinks herself unobserved. But come, we must not be here. The bell will ring in a moment."

Dénise lingered a few weeks, and then died full of peace and hope. Her death was followed, not very long after, by that of Mother Assistant and one of the sisters, which reduced the number of the professed members of the household to eight, beside the superiors.

"Our band grows smaller and smaller, and Sister Augustine is failing fast," I heard Mother Prudentia say after Sister Agnes was buried.

We had all gone to pray at the grave, next day, and I was helping Mother Bursar to smooth the turf and set some violet roots in it.

"There will soon be no one left, and what will become of the dear children?" continued Mother Prudentia.

"The Lord will provide, dear sister," answered the Mother. "Our numbers are indeed small, but we must make up for it by more earnestness. We have always, as yet, been able to keep up our constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament of the Altar."

I heard no more at that time, but what I did hear set me to wondering what would become of us if any more were taken away. This same constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament must have been great drain on the strength of our little community, as I remember it. It had been established by the Mother Angelique in Port Royal some years before Madame de Longueville and the Bishop of Langris had set up, with this same Mother's assistance, the short-lived sub-order of Daughters of the Holy Sacrament.

From morning till night and from night till morning, no matter what might be the weather, a sister was always on her knees in the church, before the altar on which was the consecrated wafer. She might seek relief by lying on her face or by leaning against a post which was placed for that purpose. Hence the sisters usually spoke of "being at the post." (I never heard, by the way, that when our Lord was in this world in bodily presence, he kept the women who ministered to him on their knees before him. Even Mary sat at his feet.) This duty, which was not so very hard divided among forty or fifty people, was certainly a severe burden when it came to be divided among ten or twelve. It makes me vexed whenever I remember how much strength, both of body and mind, our good sisters used to waste on just such performances as these.

Sister Augustine had been out of health for many years, and it was not thought she could survive Mother Assistant very long. Nevertheless, she lingered till the snows came again, sometimes confined to the bed, sometimes able to sit up a little. The second week in Advent, she too was laid away to rest in the cemetery. She had been very low and desponding through great part of her illness, indeed, almost in despair. The day that she died, I was sitting with her administering the sips of wine and water every few minutes which seemed all that kept her alive. She had been dozing for half an hour—an unusually long time—and looked so peaceful, I could not find it in my heart to waken her. At last she opened her eyes, and I hastened to give her the usual refreshment.

"Thank you, dear child. How kind you are to me!" said she, and then, pressing my hand, "I have had a lovely vision. I saw the dear Saviour stand there at the foot of my bed, and heard him say, 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven.' It is all clear to me now. He has saved me, and I shall be saved."

I saw a change had come over her face, and, in great alarm, I would have called some one, but she held me fast, while her eyes, turned toward the foot of the bed, seemed to behold some glorious vision. In a moment, the clasp of her hand relaxed, her eyes rolled upward—she was gone.

I called Mother Prudentia, but Sister Augustine never breathed again. I told the Mother what she had said.

"She was happy then in her death," said the good lady, half enviously, as it seemed. "Such assurance is granted to but very few. Doubtless it was a reward for the suffering she has borne so long and so patiently."

Had I known as much as I do now, I could have told her that such an assurance, or even a more certain one, was possible to every true believer; but I had never seen a whole Bible or heard a Bible sermon at that time. I say even more certain; for the assurance that our sins are forgiven rests on no doubtful vision or apparition, but on the rock of God's sure word and promise.

Our family was now small indeed. It was long since we had received any novices or postulants, and Desireè, who was to have been professed in the spring, seemed to have cooled considerably in her devotion. She used to excuse herself from the early services on the ground of an ague, and for a time the plea was admitted; but I think even Mother Prudentia saw through her at last. She concocted a horribly bitter dose of herb tea, with the addition of half a dozen wood-lice and a handful of earth worms, and administered the same to Desireè with her own hands every morning. I suppose Desireè thought the medicine worse than the early service, for she soon got better under this heroic treatment.

It became evident, however, that she was not the stuff of which a religious was made. At last matters came to a climax. Desireè was detected one night stealing out to the orchard, at an hour when all honest people should be in bed, and a glimpse was caught of a man's figure vanishing among the trees. If one of the elders of the house had made the discovery, the thing would doubtless have been managed without scandal, as the phrase is. But it was poor Sister Frances who saw her as she was going to relieve Sister Lazarus at the post, and the poor thing, who was not over-gifted with sense, took her for a ghost. She uttered such a succession of screams that Sister Lazarus rushed to the rescue. She caught Desireè in the act of hiding behind a thicket of evergreens, and plainly saw a man in the garden.

The whole family was aroused by that time, and came flocking to the scene of action; and so the disgraceful act became known to the whole sisterhood. Desireè was questioned in vain. She refused to utter a word. She was at last remanded to a cell, under guard; and as soon as it was light, a messenger was sent for the Count de Crequi, who was her stepfather and guardian.

Amabel and I saw him arrive from the window of the deserted oratory, where we often sat with our work. He was a little withered-looking man, richly dressed, and with a good deal of personal dignity. He was accompanied by his nephew and heir, a dissipated-looking young man, and a number of sufficiently insolent-looking lackeys. The young man staid outside talking with one of the servants. The count was received with great ceremony in the parlor, and was invited to visit the holy relics in the church, but declined, excusing himself on the ground of want of time. He was closeted for a long time with Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia, whom I ought to call Mother Assistant, since she had been elected to that place immediately after Mother Benedict's death. Meantime, wine and other refreshments were sent out to the young count and the servants, who made themselves very merry.

The old gentleman departed at last evidently in a very bad humor; for he swore furiously at the groom when he mounted his horse, and spurred the poor beast till it bolted and nearly threw him. I saw the servants laughing among themselves as they rode away. Later in the day, a covered litter, with two or three mounted servants and a female attendant, was brought to the gate, and Desireè was carried away. I was in the little chamber over the porch and saw her go. Her dress had been changed, and she wore neither veil nor rosary. She looked pale enough but not at all scared; just as she entered the litter, she turned and shook her hand at the house with such an expression of malice as I never saw before. She was then carried away and I have never seen her since.

I was dying with curiosity, but I knew better than to ask any questions, which was indeed counted a great misdemeanor among us. I was pretty sure I should have the tale from Mother Prudentia the first time we were alone together; opportunity was not likely to be wanting, for I was her regular assistant in the dairy and still-room, and it was not long before the whole came out.

"You see, child, the Count de Crequi put his step-daughter here, thinking to have made a nun of her, and so provide for her at less expense than it would have taken to marry her. I fancy, too, he did not care to have her in the way of his nephew. He is still set on his scheme, and even offered Mother Superior the choice of a double dowry with Desireè, or the withdrawal of his protection altogether. The worst is that this new Bishop is related to Desireè's mother."

"What harm should that do?" I asked in wonder! "Surely the Bishop would not wish Desireè to be received after such a scandal, and when she has no vocation!"

"Oh my child, as to that—the Bishop is the Bishop of course—but you can see that it happened very unluckily, because we are in disgrace already, having never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius and the five propositions."

"What were the five propositions about?" I asked.

"My child, I don't understand any more about them than that cat, which has no business here," said Mother Prudentia, "scatting" the cat out of the dairy, and throwing her a bit of cheese curd to console her. "Mother Superior knows and has explained it to me many a time, but I have no head for such matters, only one order held by Jansenius and Abbè St. Cyran, and the rest of the Port Royalists, and believed that they were cruelly treated and unjustly condemned. And we never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius as most of the Oratorians and Bernardines did. And you know we always look upon Mother Angelique as a sort of saint, because she reformed our house."

"But if the Pope is the one and infallible head of the Church—" said I rather surprised.

"Ah well—the Pope is the Pope, and of course he is infallible as to matters of faith. But we have always held that in matters of fact he is not infallible more than any one. And those who know, say that the propositions which the Pope condemned, are not in Jansenius' book at all. But however that may be, we are in disgrace and likely to be turned out at any time. And then what is to become of you children I don't know. Don't cut that curd any finer, child—you are working twice as much as is needful."

"I should think Sir Julius would send for us!" said I, a good deal startled.

The foster-sisters

The Foster-Sisters.

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]