The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"I have not been alone till this very moment, reverend mother," I answered, in a tone which I meant to be very humble. "I have been walking with Sister St. Stanislaus, who was telling me an affecting story. But—I fear I am very ignorant, reverend mother—I thought from the history the sister read us this morning that solitude and tears were among the most blessed things to the soul. I was so much interested in hearing how that holy young lady sat in the hen-house and cried all day by herself."

The mother looked fairly posed, as if she did not know what to answer.

I went on, prompted by that spirit of mischief which never quite deserted me in the greatest straits. "And that other place was so interesting, too, about her taking her father's goods unknown to him to give to the poor. Such a blessed example! I shall hope to follow it when I have a household of my own."

I saw by the smile which the Mother Superior turned away to hide that she saw through me, and I fancied also that she was not displeased. Mother Mary was spared the necessity of a reply which might have puzzled her, by the ringing of the dinner-bell. I enjoyed my triumph for a few minutes, as I meekly followed the elder ladies toward the house, and then I reflected that I had done a foolish thing in setting against me this lady, who had me so entirely in her power.

However, she had her revenge, and really I don't think she liked me the worse for our little encounter. I am sure the Superior did not. When we were seated at the table, and the nun had begun to read according to custom, Mother Mary stopped her.

"You seem to be rather hoarse, sister," said she, though I had not noticed it. "Mademoiselle d'Antin is a good reader, and she has a special devotion for the lives of the saints. Mademoiselle, you will take the sister's place and read to us."

Of course there was nothing for it but to obey, and I took care to show no unwillingness for my task. I read my very best, and as the story to-day happened to be a really interesting one, I had the satisfaction of seeing more than one of my auditors forget her dinner for a moment or two to listen.

"That is well," said Mother Mary, when I had finished. "We shall have the pleasure of hearing you again some time. Now eat your dinner."

The milk porridge was rather cold, but I was not troubled at that, and the sister whose place I had taken presently brought me a nice little omelette, which she had procured I know not how. Mother Mary never showed any ill-will to me afterward. She had a sort of magnanimity about her which made her rule endurable. I was often called on to read, but I believe it was only because she liked to hear me better than poor Sister Joanne, who droned on like a drumbledrone under a hat, as we say in these parts. Sister Joanne was not sorry to get rid of her task, and my meals fared none the worse for that.

We went on in this same routine for several days. Mother Mary kept a tight rein over her own flock, but I thought from what I observed that the nuns had comfortable times under their good-natured Superior. They went through all their services and observed their hours for silence and the rest, but it was all done in an easy, perfunctory manner, so to speak. Their garden and orchard were beautiful, and they made great quantities of dried and sugared fruits, and distilled essences and cordials by the gallon from the sweet flowers and aromatic herbs which grow so plentifully in that part of France. I never saw in England such lavender and rosemary as grows wild there.