“Yet be intreated, Sister,” urged Claire. “I want it to be well placed, but no more about my throat.”
Sister Brésoles, with gentle thanks, therefore,—“It shall still do honor to your house in works of charity, mademoiselle,”—accepted the gift and went directly to matins.
When Claire had washed her face and hands and tightened the loose puffs of her hair, she took her bowl of soup and sat before the fire, eating it with the hearty appetite of a woman risen from despair to resolution.
The odor of a convent, how natural it was to her!—that smell of stale incense intertwined with the scentless breath of excessive cleanliness. Through the poor joints of the house she could hear matin-chanting arise from the chapel. Daylight grew stronger and ruddier, and a light fog from the river showed opal changes.
On moccasined feet, and so deft of hand that Claire heard her neither open nor close the door, the half-breed girl came to the hearth. A brown and a white favor in woman beauty were then set in strong contrast. Both girls were slenderly shaped, virginal and immature lines still predominating. Claire was transparently clear of skin, her hair was silken white like dandelion down, and the brown color of her eyes, not deeply tinged with pigment, showed like shadow on water; while the half-breed burned in rich pomegranate dyes, set in black and fawn tints. They looked an instant at each other in different mood from their first gaze across the flagstone.
“Your father is an Indian chief, the Sister tells me,” said Claire.
“My father is Étienne Annahotaha, chief of the Hurons.”
“And what is your name?”
“Massawippa.”
“Massawippa, the Virgin sent you into the chapel to answer my prayer.”