The foster-sisters

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

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.