The scene is in a beautiful extensive garden, well planted with trees; behind, on an eminence, rises a large white house with numerous piazzas which contrast pleasingly with the green sward and shrubs before it. The slope before the house is covered with groups of children weaving garlands, for it is a holiday, the feast of St. Aloysius; and all the schools have freed their pupils great and small. Feeling the privilege of the day, the children have bounded into the grounds of their patrons, M. and Madame de Villeneuve. They knew that a strawberry festival was preparing for them, and on their parts were anxious to be busy. Festoons were hung from pillar to pillar. The large refectory was opened, and the walls garlanded; merry voices were singing childish hymns and songs, and good humor was visible everywhere.
The grounds were very spacious; far away might be seen grown persons in holiday-trim; lads and lasses preparing the tables, and a band of music sending up, every now and then, cheery notes to gladden all around.
In yonder silent glade too, half hid by the thickness of the foliage, Eugene Godfrey is walking with his young bride; they are not yet past the honeymoon, and are bound for England. To-morrow is the day fixed for their departure, and the lady-bride; formerly Elise de Villeneuve, the youngest and fairest daughter of the house of De Villeneuve, is sentimentalizing very prettily her regrets at leaving, perhaps for ever, the paternal mansion.
Clotilde de Villeneuve, who has already entered as a postulant at the convent which is visible on that eminence to the right—rising majestically above the world and backed in the distance by the interminable forest; from which it is separated by that lovely series of lakes which lie at the foot of the hill on which the building stands—Clotilde de Villeneuve has for this one day consented to break inclosure that she may bid good-by to the young sister she brought up so carefully since her mother died.
There is another lady there, looking fairer and younger than when we saw her last, giving directions in a very pleasing tone; and ever and anon looking back, a little anxiously perhaps, to see what two young girls were doing with a something in a bundle of white muslin, which seemed very animated, and which the nurses are trying to kill with kindness.
The pastor approaches, a fine old man with mild eyes, white hair, and a very benevolent aspect. All the little ones rise and courtesy, and Hester, yes, our old friend Hester, comes forward to greet him affectionately.
"Where is your husband, my dear lady?" asked the good priest, after returning the preliminary greeting.
"Well, I hardly know, he has been on the qui vive all day, here and there and everywhere. I hardly know where he is now. Do you want him particularly, father? You seem uneasy."
"Let us go in out of this hot sun," said the pastor, wiping his forehead.