"Come, my child; come and live with us again," said the superior.
"Not live, my mother," said the young girl, "but die."
"Think only of the Lord, my child," said the good abbess.
"Yes, my mother! Our Lord, who died for the sins of men."
Helene returned to her little cell, from which she had been absent scarcely a month. Everything was still in its place, and exactly as she had left it. She went to the window—the lake was sleeping tranquil and sad, but the ice which had covered it had disappeared beneath the rain, and with it the snow, where, before departing, the young girl had seen the impression of Gaston's footsteps.
Spring came, and everything but Helene began to live once more. The trees around the little lake grew green, the large leaves of the water-lilies floated once more upon the surface, the reeds raised up their heads, and all the families of warbling birds came back to people them again.
Even the barred gate opened to let the sturdy gardener in.
Helene survived the summer, but in September she faded with the waning of the year, and died.
The very morning of her death, the superior received a letter from Paris by a courier. She carried it to the dying girl. It contained only these words:
"My mother—obtain from your daughter her pardon for the regent."