Seeing how calm she was, I tried to quiet myself, and succeeded.
Then she read to me that prayer in the Litany which begins, "O God, Merciful Father," and then for a while we were silent.
"Do you feel quite well, my Vevette?" she asked at last.
"Yes, dear maman, only tired," I answered truly; for though my head was a little inclined to be giddy, and I had an odd feeling of bewilderment, as though I were some one beside myself, I had no pain. "Why do you ask?"
"Your eyes are heavy, and your cheeks more flushed than usual; that is all."
"And you, maman?"
"I am quite well, my love, only weary, as you say. Have you seen any of the family?"
"No, maman; only that kind, gentle old lady. She called herself my Cousin Marianne. Who is she?"
"She is your cousin, as she said—the sister of Mr. George Corbet, the rector of this parish, and whose household she has governed since his wife died. A better woman never lived, nor one on whom advancing years made less impression. We have fallen among kind friends in our exile, my Vevette, and we must take care to show that we appreciate their kindness. You will find your cousins' ways quite different from anything you have been used to; but do not fall into the common error of thinking that therefore those ways must be wrong. Even if they should laugh at you, take it in good part and laugh with them."
"I do not feel as if I should ever have the heart to laugh again," said I, sighing.