In Sister Lisette Alison found an able nurse, for she had served as one in the German war under the Red Cross; her soft, white hand had dressed many a ghastly wound and closed many a glazing eye, and often amid the horrors of Sedan and elsewhere the heads of the dying had rested on her bosom, and with low, loving words she had soothed their moments of death and agony—words that were sometimes taken for those of mother, or wife, or some young love that was far, far away.
Sister Lisette seemed about five-and-twenty years of age; her face was delicately fair, but the rich tint of her lips and the peach-like bloom of her cheeks relieved it of all paleness. Her features were small and regular, but very soft in their lines, and, at times, a singular sadness stole over them.
Her eyes were of the clearest and darkest hazel, and full of 'soul's light,' imparted to her face a world of expression; but what the colour of her hair (or what remained of it) was, it would be impossible to say, as every vestige of it was closely hidden by her tightly-fitting white wimple.
'And I have been here for days and nights ill,' said Alison, faintly, as consciousness came fully back to her, and Lisette, while propping her pretty head upon her own breast, gave her soothing drink. 'Oh, what a trouble I must have been to you!'
'No trouble at all, ma sœur,' replied the other, letting her head tenderly down on the pillow, and smoothing out the latter.
'So long, so long, and without papa being informed,' exclaimed Alison, as tears of dismay started to her eyes.
'Child, we know not his name—his address—even of his existence.'
Alison sighed deeply. She was too prostrate in body and even mind to regard anything as very extraordinary, even her unusual surroundings in the convent; yet she longed for her father to come to her, or to have tidings of him; of aught else she said nothing.
'Oh, if I should die without seeing papa again!' said she, wringing her hands.
'One can die but once,' said Sister Lisette, placidly. 'You are too strong and too young to die, though those who die are sometimes better off than those who are left in the world. You, at least, have all your life to look forward to.'