“I know that, without knowing how.”
“Of course. The accident which came so near depriving you of life was of that sudden nature; and your senses—but I mustn’t speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you’re to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing, that they who have placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I’ve brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you.”
She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book—one of those “Aids to Faith” relied upon by the apostles of the Propaganda.
The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at, or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown and mysterious benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her.
“How good of them!” she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive.
“How wicked of you!” retorts the other, taking it in this sense. “Positively ungrateful!” she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. “I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind.”
So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock.
“O God!” groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, “am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!”