The same afternoon a package came to the convent, directed to me, and contained, among other things, a letter from Father Angelo “to his beloved daughter in Christ Jesus”—in which he recommended her to accept the proposal I had made of taking her with me to America, and containing besides some affectionate words of advice. It was brief, and I could easily see that many feelings had prevented his being more prolix.
I then entered more fully into the subject with Claire, of her leaving her native country for mine. I found, to my great joy, that she was not only willing but desirous to go with me, and that a night’s free converse with me had given me much of her affection.
“I have not dared to think, dear madam,” she said tearfully, “how ‘doubly lone’ I should be when you were gone.”
“And you think you shall not long for the seclusion of Chaillot, and the hymns of the Sisters?”
“Oh, I dare say I shall long to see them. But meanwhile I do so long to be with you, and to see something and somebody in the world!”
“And you will be my own daughter?” I asked her now more seriously—“do you know how much that implies? If I give you all I shall require much from you.”
“Not more than all my heart,” answered she gayly, “and that you shall certainly have.”
“Till somebody else asks for it,” said I to myself.
The remainder of my stay at Chaillot was cheered by the occasional visits of Claire, but the most of the time she spent at the convent, and among the poor of the village, who loved her and mourned her departure. When at last the vessel bore us both away from France she was deeply affected. I was glad to see it: glad that mere curiosity and interest in novelty had not dulled her heart to one sympathy.
Arrived at Boston, we met the kind faces of friends, how kind and how dear, we never feel till an ocean has separated us, and soon found ourselves quietly established at my own residence, as if not a week had passed since I was last there. Claire gained in a northern climate all she needed to make her perfect—strength of body, and consequent strength of mind. She was never weary of the bold natural scenery in which New England abounds, and wandered and climbed till I used to beg her to take care of herself for my sake.