The foster-sisters

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Sister Augustine had been out of health for many years, and it was not thought she could survive Mother Assistant very long. Nevertheless, she lingered till the snows came again, sometimes confined to the bed, sometimes able to sit up a little. The second week in Advent, she too was laid away to rest in the cemetery. She had been very low and desponding through great part of her illness, indeed, almost in despair. The day that she died, I was sitting with her administering the sips of wine and water every few minutes which seemed all that kept her alive. She had been dozing for half an hour—an unusually long time—and looked so peaceful, I could not find it in my heart to waken her. At last she opened her eyes, and I hastened to give her the usual refreshment.

"Thank you, dear child. How kind you are to me!" said she, and then, pressing my hand, "I have had a lovely vision. I saw the dear Saviour stand there at the foot of my bed, and heard him say, 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven.' It is all clear to me now. He has saved me, and I shall be saved."

I saw a change had come over her face, and, in great alarm, I would have called some one, but she held me fast, while her eyes, turned toward the foot of the bed, seemed to behold some glorious vision. In a moment, the clasp of her hand relaxed, her eyes rolled upward—she was gone.

I called Mother Prudentia, but Sister Augustine never breathed again. I told the Mother what she had said.

"She was happy then in her death," said the good lady, half enviously, as it seemed. "Such assurance is granted to but very few. Doubtless it was a reward for the suffering she has borne so long and so patiently."

Had I known as much as I do now, I could have told her that such an assurance, or even a more certain one, was possible to every true believer; but I had never seen a whole Bible or heard a Bible sermon at that time. I say even more certain; for the assurance that our sins are forgiven rests on no doubtful vision or apparition, but on the rock of God's sure word and promise.

Our family was now small indeed. It was long since we had received any novices or postulants, and Desireè, who was to have been professed in the spring, seemed to have cooled considerably in her devotion. She used to excuse herself from the early services on the ground of an ague, and for a time the plea was admitted; but I think even Mother Prudentia saw through her at last. She concocted a horribly bitter dose of herb tea, with the addition of half a dozen wood-lice and a handful of earth worms, and administered the same to Desireè with her own hands every morning. I suppose Desireè thought the medicine worse than the early service, for she soon got better under this heroic treatment.

It became evident, however, that she was not the stuff of which a religious was made. At last matters came to a climax. Desireè was detected one night stealing out to the orchard, at an hour when all honest people should be in bed, and a glimpse was caught of a man's figure vanishing among the trees. If one of the elders of the house had made the discovery, the thing would doubtless have been managed without scandal, as the phrase is. But it was poor Sister Frances who saw her as she was going to relieve Sister Lazarus at the post, and the poor thing, who was not over-gifted with sense, took her for a ghost. She uttered such a succession of screams that Sister Lazarus rushed to the rescue. She caught Desireè in the act of hiding behind a thicket of evergreens, and plainly saw a man in the garden.

The whole family was aroused by that time, and came flocking to the scene of action; and so the disgraceful act became known to the whole sisterhood. Desireè was questioned in vain. She refused to utter a word. She was at last remanded to a cell, under guard; and as soon as it was light, a messenger was sent for the Count de Crequi, who was her stepfather and guardian.

Amabel and I saw him arrive from the window of the deserted oratory, where we often sat with our work. He was a little withered-looking man, richly dressed, and with a good deal of personal dignity. He was accompanied by his nephew and heir, a dissipated-looking young man, and a number of sufficiently insolent-looking lackeys. The young man staid outside talking with one of the servants. The count was received with great ceremony in the parlor, and was invited to visit the holy relics in the church, but declined, excusing himself on the ground of want of time. He was closeted for a long time with Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia, whom I ought to call Mother Assistant, since she had been elected to that place immediately after Mother Benedict's death. Meantime, wine and other refreshments were sent out to the young count and the servants, who made themselves very merry.