IF one thought anything of omens (which I do not in general, though I confess I would rather not see the new moon through glass) I might think it a bad one that my first distinct recollection is of a fall. It happened in this wise: I was sitting on the edge of the great fountain basin, eating a bit of spice cake, and watching some vernons—so they call the little wild canaries in that part of the world—which were flying in and out of the great ivy on the north wall, where I suppose they had young ones. In my interest in the birds, I forgot that my perch was both narrow and slippery. I leaned backward, the better to obtain a view of the bird's nest, which I could but just see, and so doing I lost my balance, and down I went into the water.

Luckily for me, there was help at hand, for the basin was deep and I was small. Mother Prudentia was just coming for water, and pulled me out before I had time to scream more than once. If I had seen her so near, I should not have been sitting there, for the thing was strictly forbidden. But she pulled me out and carried me to the dormitory, where I was quickly undressed and well scolded at the same time, and popped into bed.

I spent the rest of the day dully enough, but a little consoled by the gift of a second piece of spice cake and the company of my doll, which the good mother's relenting heart allowed me, after I had sobbingly confessed that I was very sorry, and would never do so again. I think she would even have let me get up but for the fear of my taking cold and having consumption. Mother Prudentia was fully convinced that all English women died of consumption, sooner or later.

To this day, the smell of a bit of fresh spice cake will bring that whole scene before my eyes. I can see the arched cloisters surrounding the paved court, with the old fountain well in the centre. I can look through the great pointed doorway and see a second court, with a tall cross in the centre surrounded by low grassy mounds, where generation after generation of the sisters rested in peace. I can smell the odor of the roses which grew so luxuriantly in the corner by the little postern door which led into the church, and the wild lavender and the rosemary, which had sprung up in those places—alas, very many—where the marble pavement had gone to decay, or the cloister walls and arches were in ruins. I can feel the very brooding, yet not stifling heat of the summer day in June, and breathe the air smelling not only of the aromatic herbs which so abound in that country, but also of the fresh breath of the sea.

I may say this association was the beginning of these memoirs. For as I was speaking of it to my dear Lady the last time she came to visit me, she thought a little, and said she to me:

"Lucy, why don't you write out the recollections of those days? They would be interesting to the children, by and by. You are a Corbet on both sides, and you know the Corbets have always been famous for writing chronicles. Come, take pen in hand, and have something to read me when I come again."

"And what is to become of my children's lessons and clothes?" I asked.

"Let the children mend their own clothes. It will be all the better for them, and you have no need to be doing such work at all. Anne Penberthy ought to take all that off your hands."

"And so she does," I answered, seeing that, by making use of the first excuse that came to hand, I had given Amabel a false impression. "Anne is a good girl and a faithful, if one ever lived; but I must have something to do when I sit down, and I tire of knitting, after a while."

"Well, then, try writing, for a change," said my Lady, smiling; and then she began to talk of one of the girls who had fallen and hurt her knee (it was Bridget Polwarth, of course—trust her for that, poor child!), and no more was said at that time.

But when evening was come, and the children were all abed, except two or three of the elder ones, to whom Anne was diligently reading a new book which my Lady brought down to us, then I began to think of what my Lady had said that morning. I had plenty of time, and my eyes are very good, so that I really hardly need glasses at all, except to do fine darning and the like. I have had an uncommonly good education (though I say it that shouldn't, perhaps), and I have passed, with my dear Lady, through many strange chances and changes in this mortal life. Why should I not write all these things down for the benefit of my Lady's children? And so it has come to pass that I have really taken pen in hand and begun this memoir, if it deserves so grand a name.

My first clear recollections are of the convent in Provence, where I was bred with Mrs. Amabel Leighton till I was about sixteen years old. The convent had once been a very wealthy establishment; and I have heard that, in the early days of Louis Fourteenth, the abbess used to entertain company in princely style, with more of magnificence and luxury than any of the gentry round about, and, in fact, with more than at all befitted a religious house.

But there was nothing of that sort done in my day. The means were wanting, even if our good mother had cherished any such desires. I am sure she did not, though, doubtless, she would have liked to have new hangings for the church, to repair the cloisters, and make the refectory at least weather-proof, and perhaps to mend our cheer a little on feast days. But the resources were hardly large enough at that time to furnish us with food and clothes, and so all these things remained undone. However, the elders of the house consoled themselves with the thought that they suffered for righteousness' sake, and were laying up merit thereby, and the young ones were happy in their youth; so we were a very cheerful household, after all.

Our foundation was one of those numerous offshoots from one of the great orders, which, under different names, are found all over Europe, and, as I said, had at one time enjoyed a princely revenue, of which the best use had not always been made. The convent was, in some way which I do not understand, a kind of dependency of the neighboring noble family of Crequi, and was a very convenient place wherein to bestow unmarried and portionless sisters, plain daughters, or those to whom it was not convenient to give large dowries, and other inconvenient female relations.

The abbess—such was her rank—had her carriage and the ladies their servants, and they were by no means particular about keeping their enclosure, as it is called, but visited and were visited themselves as long and as often as they pleased. I heard all the story many a time from Mother Prudentia, who had learned it, in her turn, from a very old nun, who well remembered those days.

But presently there came a wonderful change. The famous Mother Angelique was made abbess of Port Royal when hardly twelve years old, and was converted afterward by the preaching of a wandering friar, himself a very bad man, which shows how good may sometimes be done even by wicked men. No sooner did the Mother Angelique become really religious herself than she set about reforming her house. The nuns, for the most part, seconded her with enthusiasm. No more gay visitors were admitted. No more feasts were given or fine clothes worn. No more worldly songs were heard. Instead one saw nothing but religious ceremonies, works of charity, instructing and clothing of poor children, and the like. Hours of silence were multiplied and strictly observed, as were also the church services.

This change of affairs was greatly admired in some quarters, and as severely condemned in others. Mother Angelique went about the country visiting the different houses of the order and ours among the number. Our own abbess was a young lady of that same noble family of Crequi, and at that time about four and twenty.

"She was as beautiful as an angel, so Mother Benedict used to say, and greatly admired," (I quote Mother Prudentia's own words), "but she never seemed happy in all her gaiety, and, even at its height, she would pass whole nights watching and weeping in the church, or in her own private chapel. Some said she had been in love with a poor young cousin, who disappeared, nobody knew exactly how, though every one might guess; and the lady being offered her choice of the cloister or a gay courtly bridegroom, chose the first." And then, if she were in a very confidential mood, Mother Prudentia's voice would sink to a whisper, as she told how the poor young man was believed to have been put to death by his own relations at a spot in the chase where no grass or flowers ever sprung afterward.

However that might be, the abbess hailed Mother Angelique as though she had been an angel from Heaven. They spent long hours closeted together or pacing up and down the cloistered walk which runs along the side of the cemetery. There was a change in the house as sudden as that at Port Royal. The carriages and horses were sold, all superfluous servants dismissed, and the fare reduced to the plainest sort. No more visits were made outside the walls and none received, except at the regular times when the sisters were allowed to talk with their friends through the grate in the parlors, in proper convent fashion.

Mother Prudentia said that most of the younger nuns fell into these new ways easily enough, and were as enthusiastic as the abbess herself, so that they had to be checked, rather than urged; but the elder women were not so pliant. They liked their amusements, their good dinners and suppers, and their gossip with visitors from outside; and the abbess ran some risk of being murdered in her own house. Indeed, it was believed that a severe illness which befell the lady about that time was the effect of poison administered by a certain Italian nun who was the most bitterly opposed to the new state of things.

For a while everything prospered. The Abbess was determined, and seemed to have a real genius for government. She lived to see all her measures carried out, and was succeeded by a spiritual daughter of Mother Angelique's, who had been sent, with two or three others, to assist in the work of reformation. The great revenues were used in maintaining schools, in assisting the poor, and in establishing and endowing a second house of our order in Toulon, to which daughters of trades-people and the like were admitted; for none but ladies of noble birth were allowed to renounce the world at our house. From all I can hear, the abbess and her successor were true Christian women according to their lights, and so, I am sure, were our own dear lady and most of the family in my day.

But troublous times were at hand. The Port Royalists, or Jansenists, as they came to be called, got into difficulty with the government and with the Jesuits, who carried things with a high hand in France, as, indeed, they do still, by all accounts. The whole family of the Mother Angelique, with all who adhered to them, were pronounced heretical, disobedient to the Pope, and altogether reprobate, and various bulls and proclamations were issued against them by Pope and archbishop, king and council.

Our house suffered with the rest, for the sake of the opinions which they refused to renounce. Their revenues were pillaged, their lands confiscated, their old priest and confessor was thrown into prison, where he died; and though the sisters were allowed to retain possession of their house and garden and enough land to raise a little corn and oil and to pasture a few cows and sheep, it was rather on sufferance and because they were under the protection of that same noble family of Crequi, which happened to be in high favor at court.

Such was the state of things in my day. The house was almost ruinous, and the vineyard, the olive orchard, and all together, furnished us with a scanty subsistence. True, we children and the young novices always had enough to eat, such as it was; but I fancy the Abbess and the elder nuns kept more fasts than were in the calendar, while their robes bore the marks of much careful mending and darning. Be this as it might, I never heard a complaint. The good ladies were as cheerful as possible, and in their hours of recreation would laugh and frolic like school girls. They had formerly taught a little school for the children of the neighboring village, and a few still came, almost by stealth, to receive instruction in religion and needlework, and such other things as were considered fit for them. We were not permitted to mix with these children; but we knew them all by sight, and we were allowed to make little presents for them, such as pincushions, caps, and aprons.

As I remember it now, I believe the ladies lived in perpetual expectation of being turned out on the world or shut up in convents of some other order; but they did not allow their fear to hinder them in the discharge of their duties, or what they believed to be such. How many times I have wished that these poor souls could have come under the influence of such preachers and teachers as we have had of late years in England. What a difference would the doctrines of free grace and salvation have made in their lives.

[CHAPTER II.]

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

I WAS born in England about the year 1728 as nearly as I can find out. My mother was first cousin to Lady Leighton, and married a gentleman of her own name, who for love of her, forsook his native county and bought a small estate not far from the Scottish border in Northumberland.

My mother had twins about the time that Lady Leighton died, and as only one of the babes lived, she was easily persuaded to give the vacant place to the little motherless Amabel, the daughter of her nearest and dearest friend.

Sir Julius loved his beautiful young wife, and after she was taken away, he could at first hardly endure the sight of her child. He had been left with a large fortune and an unencumbered estate by his father, who had been a prudent gentleman and a great man of business. But Sir Julius was as I fancy very unlike the old gentlemen in every respect. He liked living in London better than in Northumberland, and spending money better than saving it. Moreover he was a hot Jacobite and soon got into trouble with the existing Government by engaging in some of the numerous plots of the time.

It was in the same year that my father was killed by a fall from his horse while helping to rescue some poor creatures from a sudden inundation. It became needful for Sir Julius to go abroad and leave his affairs in the hands of certain family connections less loyal or more prudent than himself. Nothing would serve but he must take his daughter with him, and as my mother had lost her only ties to life in England, she was easily persuaded to go along. Sir Julius lived for a year or two in the neighborhood of Toulon on a small estate owned by the Marquis de Crequi, who was some sort of a relation. Then my mother died, and Sir Julius placed us two little children in the Abbey of St. Jean de Crequi, which was at that time in a somewhat more prosperous condition than I remember it afterward.

Sir Julius entered some foreign service for a while, and then his peace was made at home and he returned to England, where he married a very rich wife and had two or three children. But he allowed his daughter and myself, her foster-sister, to remain at the convent till we were all but grown up, remitting with more or less regularity money to pay for our board and education. Why he did so I don't pretend to know unless as I think probable he was as much afraid of his second wife as he was afterward of his third. Of course, I remember nothing of all this nor did I learn much of it till after our return to England.

As I said, my first distinct recollection is of tumbling into the fountain well and being fished out by mother Prudentia. But I used to have dim and fleeting visions of a very different home—of an old timbered house and a great apple orchard loaded with fruit, and a tall, bluff man holding me up to gather a golden mellow apple with my own hands. As to our journey and the events of our short residence in France, my mind is all a blank. I seem to myself to have waked up in the old abbey at a time when I was old enough to climb up the great stairway on my hands and knees and sometimes to be carried in arms, though I think that privilege oftener belonged to Amabel who was rather a delicate child, while I was as strong as a little donkey.

We were very happy together, Amabel and I. No difference was made between us in any respect that I remember. We learned the same things, dressed in the same way, and slept in the same kind of little white covered beds in our own corner of the dormitory. There were three or four other pupils, but they were all but one, very much older than ourselves—quite young ladies in fact.

Dénice was our only playmate. I don't know what her other name was or whether she had any, but I have fancied since that she might have been a daughter of some unhappy Protestant family, torn from her parents by the cruel hand of persecutors and shut up at St. Jean to be made a good Catholic. Such things were common enough in those days. She was a thin dark child, shy and shrinking in her manners with her elders, but a capital playfellow and the best of story tellers. She was three or four years older than Amabel and myself, and had great influence over us, which she always used for good. A better child never breathed, and her early death was my first real grief.

Our household consisted, beside the pupils whom I have mentioned, of about eighteen members in all—

First of course came the Abbess. She was a middle-aged lady when I first knew her, and very handsome but worn with cares, fasts, and vigils, and so bent she looked much beyond her real age. I have nothing but good to say of her. I think it likely from what I now remember that she was not without a tinge of that spiritual pride which is nurtured by nothing more than by the voluntary humiliations required by the Roman church within all religious persons so-called. But as a ruler of her family, nobody could be more just, firm, and kind. She allowed herself no indulgences that were not shared by the rest of the community, and as I believe often denied herself absolutely necessary food and clothing to add to the comfort of the old and feeble members of the household. She was an excellent manager, overseeing everything, yet not like many notable women wasting her time in doing work which belonged to other people. While I believe she knew to a single olive and a single ounce of wool everything which her fields produced, she did not interfere vexatiously with the sisters who had charge of these things, but allowed them to manage in their own way. We little ones went to her for an hour every day to receive a special religious instruction, and she used to make these hours very pleasant, dismissing us usually with a bit of cake or fruit or some other little treat. We children at least adored her.

Next came the Mother Assistant, who was Mother Superior's right hand in all that pertained to the management of the house and farm, though I do not think there was much sympathy between them in other things. Mother Assistant was a narrow-minded woman, to whom the framework of religion was everything. She had a particular and fanatical devotion to the Saints, which was not, or so I think, the case with Mother Superior. I have an idea that she was annoyed at the state of ostracism, so to speak, in which we lived, and that she would not have been sorry to return to the old ways, and make, peace with the Church and the archbishop; but, of course, this is only an impression, such as young folks often pick up concerning their elders. She was not fond of children, and I don't think there was any love lost between us.

Then came several other officers.

The Mother Sacristine, who had the whole charge of the Church, the vestments, etc. And many a weary hour did the good mother spend in darning rent hangings and moth-eaten altar cloths (for these little pests have no more respect for the ante-pendium of an altar than for an old laborer's Sunday coat), and trying to furbish up the once rich vestments which would never look anything but faded and shabby after all her pains.

The Mother Bursar had charge of the purse and the money, when there was any. She had, as I think, only one serious worry in life, and that was, that fast as she might, she would always look fat and jolly, her cheeks and chin would always be rosy, and her face break into dimples whenever she smiled, which was very often. As to the perennial want of money, she regarded that, not as a worry, but as a cross, which is a very different matter.

Mother Prudentia was mistress of the novices, and of us young ones as well. She was a good woman, according to her lights, as the abbess herself, very fond of young people, and rather too much given to indulging them, if anything. Certainly, we children had very easy times with her. She was a born gossip, and loved nothing better than to gather us round her and tell us tales by the hour, of Mother Angelique, her work and her trials, of the Mother Perpetua, who instituted the reform, of endless saints and martyrs, of various mothers and sisters whom she had known, and sometimes, also, of giants, dwarfs, fairies, and the like. We had a certain feeling that these latter tales were a kind of contraband goods, and I fear we did not like them the less on that account.

Our sisters were, I suppose, much like any other collection of ladies of the same age and breeding, except that the sense of living under the ban of persecution and suffering for the truth's sake gave a kind of elevation to their characters not always found in convents. Mother Prudentia once told me that, at a visitation made by the Bishop or some other great functionary, the nuns then in the convent had been offered the choice of entering any other religious house they pleased; but not a single one had availed herself of the permission.

The good ladies kept their hours very strictly, revered the constitutions and rules of their order as much as the Scripture itself, or perhaps a little more, considering that they knew a good deal more about them, sang endless litanies and read all the books they had. In their hours of labor they worked in the garden and orchard, made beautiful cakes and sweetmeats (I only wish I had Sister Lazarus' receipt book), and were especially famous for their candied fruits, very few of which were ever tasted within the convent walls.

They did a great deal of embroidery and made lovely lace with the needle. Mother Angelique had disapproved of fancy-work, but the lace and embroidery were too important as sources of revenue to be disregarded. Now and then a sister disappeared for a few days, and then it was understood that she was in retreat,—that is, she shut herself up for a special season of fasting and prayer. The rules of convents are such that one may live in a religious house as a pupil for years and yet know very little of the interior workings of the family; but we were so few in number, and so poor withal, that we were thrown very much together.

The three elder pupils mostly kept by themselves, and we saw very little of any of them except Desireè. She would sometimes condescend to play with us, and usually ended by leading us into some scrape. She was the only one destined by her friends for the veil, and certainly she had the least vocation for a religious life. Marguerite and Athenais were grave, serious-minded girls, and would, I think, gladly have remained in the house; but their friends had different views for them, and they were taken away to be married.

I have said the house was a large one, and had once been very magnificent. There were two long rows of cells for the nuns, who formerly numbered fifty or sixty. There was a range of superb apartments formerly allotted to the abbess, but they were shut up and disused. The house was built around two courts, which were connected by a tall Gothic arch. The court, about which were the offices and the rooms in which we lived, was paved with fine slabs of marble, many of which, in my time, were cracked, broken, and displaced.

The fountain, in which I took my involuntary bath, stood in the centre, and was, as I remembered it, a very curious piece of workmanship. It was a great round basin, supported on a short stem, and was covered on the outside with sculpture. The figures were worn with time and weather; but one could easily trace cupids, dancing girls, and figures with goats' feet, all intermixed with garlands of leaves and flowers. The basin was always filled with clear cool water, which had its source somewhere in the hills back of the house, and which ran out of a conduit pipe into a paved channel, and so into the mountain stream which watered our garden.

On one side of the court was the church and a chapel, which last was mostly used nowadays, the sacristy and other apartments belonging thereto. Joining the church at right angles were the refectory and parlors and the rooms used by the present abbess, or Superior, as she preferred to be called, and other apartments, whose use, if they had any, I knew not, for I never saw them opened in my time. On the third side were the different offices and various storerooms for wood, charcoal, etc., as well as for the products of the farm. Above these were the ranges of cells, most of which stood empty, except for some small remains of furniture.

The outer court was, as I have said, the cemetery for the sisters, though I hardly think they could all have been buried there. It was marked by no stones except the marble cross in the centre, and the grass grew with rank luxuriance over the sunken mounds which marked the resting-places of the dead. Around this court, also, ran a range of cloisters, all paved with marble and adorned with carving of beautiful design. But here, also, the pavement was broken and the ornaments falling to decay. Here, as I have said, were situated the private apartments of the old abbesses, and others which were used for guest chambers under the old regime, but which were now always shut up and locked. How we used to wish we could see these rooms, which we thought must be very magnificent!

In one corner of this court was a very deep and disused well, into which we used to look with wonder and awe. When the sun was in the right direction it was possible, by gazing intently, to discern, about half way down, the remains of a very rude and narrow spiral stairway, which went winding down into the darkness. We used to drop little pebbles into this well, and listen, with breathless expectation, for the hollow resounding splash in the unseen waters below. Mother Prudentia used to say that this place was not really a well, but a disused entrance to certain very deep and extensive caverns below the house.

Only two sides of this court were surrounded with buildings. The others were formed by the walls which separated it from the inner court on one side and the gardens on the other. The cloisters, however, ran all around, and were famous places to play in on wet days.

The garden was beautiful. It lay on a sunny slope facing the south, and was well sheltered from the cruel winds which sometimes visit that part of the country. I never saw elsewhere such banks of violets and thickets of roses and jasmine. There were old, old orange trees, all gnarled and rough, but bearing the sweetest of thin-skinned fruit. There were tuberoses and great bushes of lavender and rosemary, and more flowers than I can remember, and caper plants growing in the old ruined brickwork, fragments of which peeped everywhere, and gay Lent lilies, and clumps of tall white ones, which we used to consider specially sacred to the Virgin. Oh, I cannot pretend to enumerate the charms of that garden.

There was a fish-pond, which we little ones were forbidden to approach, and a lovely little brook full of minnows and other interesting creatures, where we used to get into disgrace by dabbling and wetting our feet and our pinafores. Here were our own gardens, where we each had a currant bush, and where we raised flowers and salads, and now and then a melon. Happy she whose salad or melon was considered good enough for the Reverend Mother's table. I don't believe the dear lady was very fond of melons, but she used to accept them graciously, and ceremoniously ask our permission, which of course we always gave, to divide the treat with the other mothers and sisters.

I must not forget the potage, or herb garden, where grew salads and pulse of many sorts, endive and parsley, sweet herbs and garlic, beside such grand cucumbers, great gourds and melons, and such scarlet love apples as one never sees in England. I don't wonder that the children of Israel hankered after such things in the midst of the desert. I should like to see a roasted gourd myself once more. Here was a great range of bee-hives, which were the special care of Sister Baptista.

Beyond the garden were the olive orchard and the fields belonging to the house, where we were never allowed to go by ourselves. Here were pastured our three cows, whose produce made a good part of our living. Just outside the pasture lived an old laboring man, who, with his wife and his lame son, did all the work of the farm which was too hard for the sisters. We were, for some reason or other, dreadfully afraid of this old man, though he never did anything worse than make faces at us, which I don't think he could help, and laugh a queer shrill laugh when we ran away from him.

Beyond these fields was a valley, through which ran a stream, usually nearly dry in summer, though it was a hoarse roaring torrent in winter. Beyond this rose high rather barren hills.

On the other side of the house was a narrow court, also paved, where we never set foot, and a high wall spiked on the top. The house had no windows on the lower floor on this side, but there were several on the floor above.

One of these was accessible to us, being in a sort of disused oratory—or so I judge from what furniture remained to it—and was a great resort of Amabel's and mine. From it see could see the land, which fell off very rapidly, and, beyond, the blue sea dotted with sails. Amabel used to point southward, and say that we had come across the sea, and that our home was "over there." Of course, she was mistaken, for the land on the other side was Africa, as I now know, where the poor blackamoors come from; but we used to like to look at it and fancy sometimes that we saw a little bit of England.

[CHAPTER III.]

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

THERE could hardly be two people more differently constituted than Amabel Leighton and myself, which is perhaps one reason why we have continued such fast friends all through life. I was always well and strong, able to bear fatigue, and caring nothing for any danger that I could see. At the same time, I was dreadfully afraid of all the creatures and powers of darkness, and still more afraid of being found fault with or laughed at, not only by people whom I loved and respected, but by those for whom I didn't care a rush.

Amabel, on the contrary, was delicate in body, shrinking from exertion or exposure. She was very timid. She was afraid, even, of our own petted cows, till she learned to milk that she might help Sister Lazarus; and she was terrified at our big watch dog, which adored her, and would wag his tail at the most distant glimpse of her.

"Why do you pat Arslan when you are so afraid of him?" asked Mother Prudentia one day, when she saw Amabel caressing the dog's great square head, while he licked her hand in an ecstasy.

"Because, dear Mother, he wagged his tail at me, and I don't like to hurt his feelings," answered the dear child, half sobbing. "You know you said we should never hurt people's feeling if we could help it."

Desireè, who was near, laughed her little sneering laugh.

"A dog is not people—he is only a brute beast!" said she.

"Arslan is a great deal more like people than some girls I know!" said I, hotly resentful both for Arslan and Amabel.

"Tut, tut, little pepper pot!" said the mother, smiling at my vehemence. "A dog is not people, but he has affections, and I am glad my little Aimeè regards them. If we thought always as tenderly as thou of the feelings of our friends, it would be all easy world to live in."

This little incident is a good specimen of Amabel. Timid as she was, if she once made up her mind that a certain course was right, she would pursue it through thick and thin. But while no amount of laughing or teasing would make her do what was wrong, she was sometimes led by her affection for me to join in projects which brought us both into trouble and disgrace. I remember one instance in particular, which came near being very serious in its consequences.

I have said that there was an extensive range of unused apartments on one side of the cemetery. They were commonly kept locked up, but one day as we three young ones were playing in the cloister, Mother Bursar came out with a bunch of keys and proceeded to unlock the grand entrance.

We clustered round her and watched with much interest the opening of the great two leaved portal.

"So! I suppose you are all dying of curiosity to see these wonderful rooms," said Mother Bursar, smiling at our eager faces. "Well you may follow me if you will keep close behind me and touch nothing. But mind you do not slip away, for the rooms and passages are many and you might be lost or have a fall. The floors are not as good as they might be."

We eagerly availed ourselves of the permission and with many exclamations of wonder followed Mother Bursar into the great hall and through the apartments opening from it. These rooms had once been splendidly decorated with carving and painting, and enough still remained to show that the subjects of the paintings were not always religious by any means. Some furniture was still standing about, here a great cushioned chair, there a cabinet once gay with inlaid ivory and gilding, or a Persian rug eaten with the moths.

"Why does not dear mother have some of these pretty things in her own room?" I ventured to ask as I paused before a beautiful table with cupids and birds inlaid all over it.

"Dear mother does not care for such things, my child!" answered Mother Bursar. "They are not fit for one who has renounced the world. But we are going to overlook all the hangings and curtains and see if we can make any of them over into bed coverings for some of the poor people, and for our own beds as well. Come now, troop out little ones. I have opened the windows to let in the air and shall leave them for a while, till the place is freshened up."

"Let us stay here and look at the pictures on the walls, dear mother!" begged Amabel, who loved everything beautiful. "We will not go into any other rooms."

"Very well!" said Mother Bursar, who was always indulgent and who knew that Amabel and Dénice at least could be trusted. "Mind you stay here in the hall and go no where else, above all do not venture up the stairs."

Mother Bursar went away and left us and we were busy studying the story of Joseph and his family on the painted wall, when Desireè came stealing in.

"So here are all the good little girls!" said she. "All busy breaking rules. I wonder what Mother Prudentia will say to that."

"We are not breaking rules as it happens," I answered warmly as usual. "Mother Bursar gave us leave to stay here and look at the pictures till she came back. There are much prettier pictures in the other rooms but we must not go there," I added rather regretfully, remembering the beautiful ladies dancing under the trees which I had seen within.

"How do you know about the pictures if you must not go there!" asked Desireè. "Aha, Miss Lucille, I have caught you this time!"

"You have done nothing of the sort," said I. "Mother Bursar let us accompany her through the rooms but she said we must go no where else without her."

Desireè went and looked through the open doors, and even ventured a few steps into the room, but soon returned. I fancy she was afraid.

"And where does this go?" she asked, turning to a little door opening under the great stairs.

"I don't know, I never noticed it!" I answered.

"It does not matter where it goes, since we are not to leave this hall!" said Amabel. "Don't touch it, Desireè."

"I shall not ask your leave, Misè!" returned Desireè, still working at the door.

I suppose the lock was rusted, for it yielded in her hand, and she opened it. Amabel and myself came behind her and looked. The door opened on a stone stair, which led downward. It was dark at first, but gazing steadfastly we could discern a dim light below. A damp, mouldy air blew in our faces. I shuddered, I knew not why, and turned away.

"Look at her. She pretends to fear nothing, and she is scared at the very sight of this old hole!" said Desireè. "Now I will wager anything that she would never dare go down these stairs and walk twenty paces away from them!" And Desireè laughed scornfully.

"Whether she is afraid or not, she must not do it!" said Dénice. "The Mother Bursar has forbidden it."

"She did not forbid it—she said nothing about it!" said I.

"She forbade us to leave the hall, and that is enough!" retorted Dénice.

But Desireè persisted in daring me to descend the stairs, and at last I was just foolish enough to undertake it. Amabel strove with tears in her eyes to dissuade me, but seeing that I was determined, she expressed her intention of going with me.

"Don't go, oh, don't go!" pleaded Dénice; but, seeing us both preparing to descend, she suddenly pulled herself free from Desireè, who was holding her fast, and ran out of the hall.

The stairs were sound enough, but slippery with damp and mould. They landed us in a very small square apartment, lighted by a grating close to the top. From this room, long, dark passages led away in two or three directions. I must confess, I was dreadfully scared, but Desireè's taunts had roused my pride, and I walked firmly on down one of the long alleys. I remember just how soft and velvety the ground felt under my feet, and how our footsteps yet seemed to wake a strange echo, as if some one were coming to meet us.

"There, you have walked twenty steps," said Amabel. "Now let us turn round."

"Just a few more, to be sure," said I.

I took a step or two more, but was checked by a sort of suppressed cry from Amabel.

"O Lucy, I cannot see the light at all!"

I turned round quickly enough at that. Sure enough, no light was to be seen. We were in total darkness.

"The passage must wind a little," said I. "Let us go back. We shall soon see the light from the passage-way."

I took her cold, damp hand in mine, and we turned back. But, alas! when we had taken more than twenty steps, twice told, no light was to be seen.

"Lucy," said Amabel in a whisper, "Lucy, we are lost!"

"Nonsense!" said I, angrily. "How could we be lost? We have taken the wrong turn, that is all! Let us try to go back."

And so we did; but the obscurity was still the same—thick, black darkness, that could be felt.

"We are lost!" repeated Amabel, with a curious kind of coolness. "There is no use in denying it, Lucy. No doubt there are many branching passages, and we took the wrong one."

"I am afraid we are, and it is all the fault of that hateful Desireè!" said I, beginning to cry. "Only for her, we should never have come."

"She could not have made us come," replied Amabel. "No, Lucy, let us blame nobody but ourselves. We have been very naughty, indeed, and we may as well own it."

"You were not naughty. You only came because I did," I sobbed, as we still hurried on, we knew not whither. "And I wouldn't care if it was only myself; though I know I should die, if I were here alone. But what shall we do?"

"We must not go a step more in this way, that is certain!" said Amabel, stopping short at last. "Lucy, don't you feel how wet and soft the ground is getting under our feet? Let us turn exactly round, so as to face the other way."

We did so, and none too soon, for the ground was, indeed, growing very soft; and, as it was, I got out with the loss of one shoe. We walked back till we came to firm ground, and then Amabel stopped again, holding me tightly by the hand, as I would have gone on.

"Do not let us take another step," said she. "We only go farther astray. Let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then keep still till some one comes."

"No one will ever come!" said I despairingly. "Desireè will not tell, for fear of being punished; and we shall perish here alone, unless we are torn in pieces by some of the dreadful creatures that live in such places."

For we children, one and all were firmly persuaded that the cellars were the haunts of all sorts of Bogeys.

"God and the Holy Virgin will take care of us," said Amabel. "Some one is sure to come. Dénice will tell, if no one else does; and, besides Mother Bursar will guess. Come, let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then call as loud as we can."

We said our prayers, and then began to call loudly for help; but none came for a long time, or so it seemed to us. We found afterwards that it was about two hours. The sisters, it seems, were at "obedience," which is the hour when they all meet in the superior's room to give an account of their employments and hear whatever she had to say to them. And Dénice could find no one to whom she could tell her story. It may be guessed that the hours seemed much longer to us poor young things.

"It is of no use," said I, despairingly, at last. "It must be midnight by this time. They are not coming, or they cannot find us."

"They will surely come," said Amabel, firmly. "They can track us by our steps, the ground is so soft." She paused a moment, and then began, in her pure, sweet voice to chant the Miserere.

"Have mercy upon me, O Lord!"

How the words rung and echoed through those dismal vaults, and came back to us multiplied and changed by the echoes, till it seemed as if something or somebody was mocking us. I stopped once or twice; but Amabel sang on, holding my hand fast all the while. She told me afterward her chief fear was that I should break away from her in my terror, and that we should lose one another.

We were just finishing the psalm, when Amabel's grasp on my hand tightened. I opened my eyes, which I had closed for a few moments, and saw a gleam of light. It flickered for a moment, glanced on the moist stones, and vanished.

"What is it?" I whispered. "A death-light!"

"Some one looking for us!" she replied.

And, sure enough, in another moment a well-known voice called, "Children, where are you?"

"Here, mother!" we both cried out at once; and I started to my feet and would have run forward, but Amabel checked me.

"Wait!" said she. "Wait till we see the light, or we may be lost again."

It could have been but a short time, but it seemed endless, till the voice called again, "Children!"

And, joy of joys! We saw the light once more, and two dark figures coming through the gloom.

"Here, dear mother, here we are!" cried Amabel, for I could not make a sound; and in a moment more we were in the arms of the Superior and Mother Prudentia.

"Thank God, they are safe!" said the dear lady. "I feared we should have much more trouble in finding them. Hold the light well up, dear sister, and we will follow you. It will not do to miss our way again."

Mother Prudentia went first with the light, and we followed, each clinging to a hand of Mother Superior. As we passed along, and I saw how many branching passages and alleys there were, I could not wonder that we had missed our way.

At the entrance of one of the broadest of these, Mother Prudentia stopped short and, with a look I shall never forget, pointed out something on the ground to Mother Superior. I looked, but saw only the impress of our own wet and muddy footsteps upon the mouldy floor.

"Holy Virgin!" said Mother Prudentia. "Surely you did not go down there!"

"I don't know. I suppose so," answered Amabel, wearily, for she was not strong, and was growing very tired. "We went somewhere where the ground was all soft, and we began to sink in, and Lucy lost her shoes. Then we turned round and ran, till we came to where you found us."

"Thank Heaven!" said the Superior again; and not another word was spoken till we reached the upper air, where Mother Bursar and the Mother Assistant, with two or three other elders, were waiting.

Never in my life shall I forget how marvellously beautiful everything looked as we came out into the court. And how sweet was the breath of the summer air! It was like a vision of the new Heaven and the new earth to the redeemed soul.

The sisters gathered round us with many exclamations, but we were allowed to speak to no one. We were hurried off to the infirmary and popped into bed, with plenty of blankets, and enjoined to lie still. We were no sooner deposited than Sister Lazarus appeared with a jug of steaming hot soup and two little basins.

"There, drink your soup directly," said she, pouring it out. "You will get your deaths of cold, and so will dear Mother, and how you will feel then, naughty children! There, don't cry, poor dears, but take your soup good and hot."

"But this is meat soup," said Amabel. "Isn't this Friday?"

"No, of course not, child! It is Thursday. Did not you have meat for your dinners?"

"Thursday?" said Amabel, wonderingly. "Why, surely, it is not the same day that we were looking at the pictures in the great hall. Have we been in that place only one day?"

"You have been gone only two or three hours," replied Mother Prudentia. "You followed Mother Bursar into the hall a little while after noon, and it is now just time for vespers. There, eat your soup, and do not talk."

We ate our soup, as we were bid, and then lay down. I soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which I waked many times crying and calling upon Amabel and Mother Prudentia. I took a severe cold, and Amabel was stiff and feverish; so that we were kept in bed for two or three days.

When we were quite well again, Mother Superior sent for us to her room and talked to us kindly, but very gravely, about our fault. Amabel, who was the least to blame of the two, said not a word in her own defence, but tried timidly to excuse me, on the ground that Desireè had dared me to do what I did.

"And do you consider that any excuse, my Aimeè, or does Lucille herself think so?" asked the lady, turning her penetrating eyes upon me. She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw—clear gray, with very dilating pupils—and I used to believe she could read my very thoughts.

In my heart of hearts, I did think Desireè's conduct formed some excuse for me, but I dared not say so.

"Suppose, my child, that Desireè had dared you to steal something out of Mother Bursar's purse, or to murder her!"

"But that would be impossible, Reverend Mother," I faltered, thinking only of the murder, though I might well have included the other.

"Suppose it possible! Would the fact that you had been dared to do it excuse you?"

"No, Reverend Mother, but—"

"You pride yourself very much on your courage, my child," continued the lady; "but the fact is, that, in some respects, you are an arrant coward, and that cowardice is at the bottom of almost every serious fault you commit."

She had touched me now. I felt my cheek flame, while my lips framed the denial I dared not utter.

"Why did you feel obliged to commit an act of disobedience, to break a promise and run into danger?" asked the lady. "Tell me." Then, as I did not answer—"Speak at once, my Lucille. Was it not because you were afraid that Desireè would laugh at you?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother," I answered, feeling very small indeed in my own eyes.

"Ah, my child, that is the very worst kind of cowardice. 'The fear of man bringeth a snare,' the Scripture saith. How are you to go through life, or what account will you have to give in at the last great day if, even within the shelter of these sacred walls you can be drawn to sin and danger by dread of the laugh of a person whom you neither love nor respect. You will meet many people in this world who will laugh at you for desiring to do right and refusing to go with a multitude to do evil. Such people are the devil's own instruments for the ensnaring of timid souls, and, unless you are prepared to withstand them, there is no telling to what crime or folly you may not be driven. Aimeè erred through her affection to you, and she was very wrong, but I think your fault was the worse of the two."

She paused a little, I fancy to observe the effect of her words.

Amabel was dissolved in tears; but I stood with red cheeks, twisting the corner of my apron and looking, I dare say, as I felt, a very naughty, obstinate little girl indeed.

"I shall say no more at present," said the lady, after a few minutes' silence. "And as you have already suffered severely, I shall lay but one penance upon you, and that is, to go with Mother Prudentia and myself and see the danger you have escaped."

"Please, dear, Reverend Mother, don't make Amabel go!" I ventured to say, feeling how she trembled. In my own heart, I was rather pleased with the idea of seeing the place again.

"I want to go if Lucille does," sobbed Amabel.

"You shall both go," answered the lady. "Have no fear. There is no danger to one who knows the way and how far to go. Stay here till I return."

She left us alone for a few minutes. Amabel fell on her knees before the crucifix. I did the same, and repeated the prayers after her, but my heart was not in them. I was decidedly elated at the prospect of our adventure. It was not long before the lady returned accompanied by Mother Prudentia. Each of the ladies carried a lantern, and Mother Prudentia had our cloaks on her arm.

The Superior led the way, not that we had gone before, but through the upper corridor and several disused apartments, where the shutters were all closed and the air smelt strongly of the wool, the oil, and cheese which were stored in the rooms below. At last we came into the older part of the house, descended the great stairs which Mother Bursar had so strictly forbidden us to go up, and found ourselves in the painted hall, from which we descended the stone stairs to the little vestibule. I observed by the way that a strong new lock had already been put upon this door.

Here we stopped while Mother Prudentia put on our cloaks and gave us each a taper to carry. She then took Amabel by the hand, and Mother Superior did the same by me, and we moved forward without speaking.

I had my wits about me this time, and I saw in what a network of passages and alleys we had been involved. The marks of our footsteps were still to be seen in the thick black mould which covered the ground. The walls, which seemed of solid rock, streamed with moisture and were hung in places with strange unwholesome growths. I felt my courage slipping away from me, as the thought would come into my mind—What if Mother Superior should herself lose her way! How we were guided, I do not know—probably by some marks or signs on the walls.

At last, the Superior stopped and made a sign to Mother Prudentia. The lanterns were trimmed anew, Mother Superior once more took me by the hand, and bidding me hold up my taper and not take one step in advance of her, we moved cautiously on for some yards. Then we stopped again, and the lady held up her lantern, as did the other mother.

"Look, my children!" said she solemnly. "Look and see the danger from which you were preserved."

I looked, and saw a sight I shall never forget,—a black, sullen, horrible pool, stretching far away out of our sight. The border of the pool was edged with slime, which shone with rainbow colors in the light of the lanterns, and the same slime floated in great patches on the surface of the water. We were not very near—not so near as Amabel and I had gone, for I could see our footmarks beyond us—but the ground felt wet and cold, and when I raised my foot something seemed to hold it down. I shuddered. If we had gone but a little farther—

"Look well, my children, and never forget that sight," said the lady, solemnly. "Let that pit represent to you the pit of destruction to which every wilful unrepented sin is a step. See how treacherous are its very shores. A very little farther, and you would have been sucked down into its foul depths, from which nothing ever comes up again. And in this pit, my poor Lucille, you might have been lying at this moment, led thither by what? By the idle laughter of a wicked fool!"

I realized it all then.

"Oh, I have been very, very wicked!" I cried. "I don't care so much about myself, but if I had drowned Aimeè!"

And then I stopped, terrified, and clung to the lady's arm, for my words came back to me from over that dreadful water with a wild tone of mockery.

"Fear nothing. It is but the echo," said the lady.

She picked up a small pebble from the floor and threw it far into the water. Never shall I forget the awful hollow reverberations which followed. I never heard another such sound.

"The water is very high," said Mother Prudentia, sadly looking at the Superior. "I never saw it come so far or rise so high in the well as it does now."

"The will of Heaven be done!" answered the lady. "Come, we must not stay longer here. I think our little ones will never forget this lesson."

We hurried back carefully observing our way, at least the elders did, and were soon once more in the Superior's apartments.

I was humbled enough now. I saw my fault in its true colors, and confessed it. We were forgiven and dismissed and the matter was never alluded to again, for it was not our dear mother's way to return to old troubles.

I think now that the experiment was rather a dangerous one. Some children might have been scared by it into a fever if nothing worse. But I do believe that it was the beginning of all that is good in me. I never lost the vivid impression made on me by the sight of those dark waters, and the lady's solemn words, "That is the pit of destruction and every wilful and unrepented sin is a step toward it."

I saw that the mother's words were true and that while I flattered myself with the idea of my courage, I was in fact a real coward. I made up my mind that I would never again be laughed into doing what I knew was wrong and foolish, and if I have ever done so since, I have at least sinned with my eyes open.

I had of course very imperfect and even false ideas of religion at that time, but I knew enough to know that I must have help from outside of myself to do anything that was good, and I prayed for that help and doubtless received it.

One day when we two were alone with mother Prudentia, helping her with some herbs she was drying, I ventured to ask mother, "What was the use of those great vaults and how they came there?"

"That is more than any one knows, child!" answered the mother, who, as I said, dearly loved to tell a story. "Some say they are the quarries from whence were taken the stones to build the house. Some, our good old Father confessor among them, that they are much older than that, and that they are the remains of a Roman or heathen temple Which used to stand in this place, as are also the bits of old brick wall which cumber our garden. He was a great scholar, was Pere La Roche. As to their use, I don't know that they have any. No body knows how far they extend for no one has ever gone to the end of them. So you see even if you had not fallen into the water, you might have wandered away and never have been found again."

"I should think they would have the door built up!" said Amabel. "Is there any other entrance but by which we went down?"

"Yes, two or three from the vaults under the offices, but they are all securely fastened up. Nobody ever goes into them but the Superior and Mother Assistant or myself once a year."

"And why do you do that?" I asked.

"You ask too many questions, child, you will never do for a nun! I am sure I don't know why, only that it is one of our rules!" said Mother Prudentia, reproving my curiosity and satisfying it at the same time: "A good religious obeys and never asks why."

"I just want one question more!" said Amabel, who had hitherto left the conversation mostly to me. "What did you mean by saying that the water was very high? I know it is high in the well, for I looked this afternoon, and it is nearer the top of the steps than I ever saw it before."

"Is it?" asked Mother Prudentia with a startled look—then once more sinking her voice—

"It is said that the rise of those dark waters portends misfortune to our house. Once—how many years ago I don't know, but it was very many—that well overflowed so that a stream ran down into the brook in the garden and poisoned the water so that everything along its banks died—and that year a fever or plague broke out in the house and every member of the family died, except the abbess and two sisters. But I will not have you looking into the well. There is a very damp unwholesome air rising from it. Now wash your hands and bring your work, and I will tell you a true tale about St. Helena, and if the work is well done—who knows whether there may not be some comfits in a cupboard somewhere?"

I think after the lesson we had received, we should have obeyed Mother Prudentia at any rate, but we had no chance to do otherwise, for the very next day, a heavy wooden covering was placed over the old well, which was never removed while we remained at St. Jean.

I should say that Desireè was as severely punished as Amabel and myself. She flatly denied at first having anything to do with the matter—then she said it was I who had opened the door, and that she had tried to prevent me. But the united testimony of Amabel and Dénise prevailed, and she was put in penitence for two or three days and carefully watched afterward for a long time.

[CHAPTER IV.]

TROUBLES.

IT was I think, about a year after our adventures in the caverns, that Dénise died. She was the only pupil left except Amabel, Desireè and myself—Desireè affected great devotion about that time, and Mother Prudentia rejoiced over her as a brand plucked from the burning; but I think Mother Superior considered her a brand that would bear watching—as indeed she was, and one that was destined to kindle a great fire.

Dénise had always been a delicate girl, more so even than Amabel herself. She would never allow that she was ill, however, and used to join in all our sports and latterly made herself very useful in the house and garden. She was one of those people for whom everything will grow, and she loved flowers with an absolute passion. But by and by, she began to grow thin and to have a very little cough. She had a lovely complexion which seemed to grow more beautiful day by day, and her eyes were brighter than ever. We noticed that she became rather silent, though she was always cheerful—and we were sometimes inclined to murmur when Mother Prudentia excused her from one duty after another, and Sister Lazarus cooked all sorts of nice things for her, whereas our own table grew plainer all the time.

But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be considered a dying person.

"If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will be done."

"Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked.

"She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave this world."

The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter and the mornings were dark and cold.

"Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked Amabel in a low tone.

She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the others did.

"I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?"

"Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one about the Lord being a Shepherd."

"That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I.

"Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?"

"Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all, though I often try to do so."

"I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment."

"I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do if he were to send for us to come back to England?"

"We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel.

"And then should we have to become Protestants?"

"I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose whatever they might do."

"Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.

"I have sometimes thought he must be, or he would not have left us here to be educated!" replied Amabel. "But we need not borrow trouble, Lucy. Perhaps he may never send for us. I should like that best—to live here always and become a religious, would not you?"

"I should like to do so if you did!" I answered truly enough, for imagination was not strong enough to picture for myself a life apart from Amabel. "But sometimes I think I should like to see what the world is like, especially England. Perhaps the Protestants are not all so bad after all!" And here I stopped and looked about me rather alarmed, lest my audacious remark should have been overheard.

"I am sure our mother was not bad!" said Amabel. "She used to teach us to say our prayers at her knees."

"How I wish I could remember her as you do!" said I, enviously. "I wonder why I cannot!"

"I heard Mother Prudentia say once that you were very ill when you came here and for some time after—perhaps that is the reason!" answered Amabel, and then recurring to our sick play fellow. "How strange and sad it will seem not to have Dénise."

"I can't bear to think of it!" said I, beginning to cry. "She has played with us ever since I remember. It was she who told Mother Superior about our going into the cavern, and only for her we might have died there, for I am sure Desireè would never have told!"

"Not she!" said Amabel with decision. "She would not care if the whole family perished, so she were safe. Lucy, that girl is a hypocrite!"

"You should not say so—she is very devout," said I; for I rather believed in Desireè's conversion, though I am afraid I did not like her any the better for it.

"Devout or not, she is a hypocrite!" persisted Amabel in a tone which surprised me. I had never heard her speak so bitterly, and indeed she rarely spoke ill of any one. "She despises dear Mother Prudentia, whose shoes she is not fit to carry, and she hates Mother Superior. I have seen the looks she casts at them when she thinks herself unobserved. But come, we must not be here. The bell will ring in a moment."

Dénise lingered a few weeks, and then died full of peace and hope. Her death was followed, not very long after, by that of Mother Assistant and one of the sisters, which reduced the number of the professed members of the household to eight, beside the superiors.

"Our band grows smaller and smaller, and Sister Augustine is failing fast," I heard Mother Prudentia say after Sister Agnes was buried.

We had all gone to pray at the grave, next day, and I was helping Mother Bursar to smooth the turf and set some violet roots in it.

"There will soon be no one left, and what will become of the dear children?" continued Mother Prudentia.

"The Lord will provide, dear sister," answered the Mother. "Our numbers are indeed small, but we must make up for it by more earnestness. We have always, as yet, been able to keep up our constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament of the Altar."

I heard no more at that time, but what I did hear set me to wondering what would become of us if any more were taken away. This same constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament must have been great drain on the strength of our little community, as I remember it. It had been established by the Mother Angelique in Port Royal some years before Madame de Longueville and the Bishop of Langris had set up, with this same Mother's assistance, the short-lived sub-order of Daughters of the Holy Sacrament.

From morning till night and from night till morning, no matter what might be the weather, a sister was always on her knees in the church, before the altar on which was the consecrated wafer. She might seek relief by lying on her face or by leaning against a post which was placed for that purpose. Hence the sisters usually spoke of "being at the post." (I never heard, by the way, that when our Lord was in this world in bodily presence, he kept the women who ministered to him on their knees before him. Even Mary sat at his feet.) This duty, which was not so very hard divided among forty or fifty people, was certainly a severe burden when it came to be divided among ten or twelve. It makes me vexed whenever I remember how much strength, both of body and mind, our good sisters used to waste on just such performances as these.

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.

The old gentleman departed at last evidently in a very bad humor; for he swore furiously at the groom when he mounted his horse, and spurred the poor beast till it bolted and nearly threw him. I saw the servants laughing among themselves as they rode away. Later in the day, a covered litter, with two or three mounted servants and a female attendant, was brought to the gate, and Desireè was carried away. I was in the little chamber over the porch and saw her go. Her dress had been changed, and she wore neither veil nor rosary. She looked pale enough but not at all scared; just as she entered the litter, she turned and shook her hand at the house with such an expression of malice as I never saw before. She was then carried away and I have never seen her since.

I was dying with curiosity, but I knew better than to ask any questions, which was indeed counted a great misdemeanor among us. I was pretty sure I should have the tale from Mother Prudentia the first time we were alone together; opportunity was not likely to be wanting, for I was her regular assistant in the dairy and still-room, and it was not long before the whole came out.

"You see, child, the Count de Crequi put his step-daughter here, thinking to have made a nun of her, and so provide for her at less expense than it would have taken to marry her. I fancy, too, he did not care to have her in the way of his nephew. He is still set on his scheme, and even offered Mother Superior the choice of a double dowry with Desireè, or the withdrawal of his protection altogether. The worst is that this new Bishop is related to Desireè's mother."

"What harm should that do?" I asked in wonder! "Surely the Bishop would not wish Desireè to be received after such a scandal, and when she has no vocation!"

"Oh my child, as to that—the Bishop is the Bishop of course—but you can see that it happened very unluckily, because we are in disgrace already, having never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius and the five propositions."

"What were the five propositions about?" I asked.

"My child, I don't understand any more about them than that cat, which has no business here," said Mother Prudentia, "scatting" the cat out of the dairy, and throwing her a bit of cheese curd to console her. "Mother Superior knows and has explained it to me many a time, but I have no head for such matters, only one order held by Jansenius and Abbè St. Cyran, and the rest of the Port Royalists, and believed that they were cruelly treated and unjustly condemned. And we never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius as most of the Oratorians and Bernardines did. And you know we always look upon Mother Angelique as a sort of saint, because she reformed our house."

"But if the Pope is the one and infallible head of the Church—" said I rather surprised.

"Ah well—the Pope is the Pope, and of course he is infallible as to matters of faith. But we have always held that in matters of fact he is not infallible more than any one. And those who know, say that the propositions which the Pope condemned, are not in Jansenius' book at all. But however that may be, we are in disgrace and likely to be turned out at any time. And then what is to become of you children I don't know. Don't cut that curd any finer, child—you are working twice as much as is needful."

"I should think Sir Julius would send for us!" said I, a good deal startled.

"I believe Mother Superior has written to him—" answered Mother Prudentia—with a scared look, such as she always wore when she had been betrayed into some indiscretion greater than usual. "Oh! My unlucky tongue—when shall I ever learn to rule it? However, I know Mother Superior means to tell you all about it before long—only if she does you know—" and the good Mother looked rather wistfully at me.

"I understand, dear Mother—" said I, seeing that she wished to caution me against displaying any previous knowledge of what the Superior had to tell me.

In effect, it was only a few days before Mother Superior called Amabel and myself into her room and informed us that she had heard from Sir Julius Leighton concerning us, and that he would probably send for us in a short time. She gave us a great deal of excellent advice, and particularly enjoined it upon us to preserve our faith intact, in the land of heretics to which we were going.

"Your father, my Aimeè, is a good Catholic, or so I understand!" said she. "But your step-mother belongs to the so-called reformed religion, as do your father's sisters; you will therefore need to exercise great firmness and caution."

I cannot tell all the dear Mother said to us, only she specially warned us against reading heretical books. She gave us each a reliquary containing a precious relic. Mine was a bit of the veil of St. Agnes in a handsome gold and enameled setting. I have it still. She then addressed herself to me, telling me what it had never entered my head to think of before—namely, that I was inferior in rank to Amabel, and must probably be content to take a lower place. (French people cannot understand that commoners have any rank at all, more than French bourgeois.) While I was trying to take in and understand this new idea, Amabel spoke in her gentle decided voice.

"I shall never be separated from Lucy!" said she firmly. "Where she goes, I will go."

"That will be as your father says, my child!" answered dear Mother, rather reprovingly. "I hope indeed that you may continue united as you have been, but remember your father's will is your law, so long as he does not command anything contrary to our Holy Faith."

Amabel did not reply, but she shut her lips as she was used to do, when she had made up her mind. Mother Superior gave us some more words of advice and then dismissed us with her blessing.

We went away in silence, till we reached our old place of retirement in the Oratory, and then Amabel threw her arms round my neck, and burst into a passionate flood of tears—an unusual thing for her, for she seldom cried.

"You won't desert me, will you Lucy!" she sobbed. "It is bad enough to leave this dear home and all the Mothers and Sisters for a strange land, but if I must lose you—"

"Now you are borrowing trouble, as you tell me!" said I, holding her in my arms and trying to console her. "You don't know that any one will want to separate us."

"I feel as if they would try!" said Amabel, striving to recover her composure. "But oh! Lucy, promise me that you never will leave me, if you can help it."

"Of course I will. See, I promise on this holy relic!" said I, kissing the reliquary which I still held in my hand.

Amabel promised the same, and then to divert her and myself also, I suggested that we should go down to the chapel, and see if we could assist Mother Sacristine, who was busy cleaning the silver candlesticks, and other altar furniture.

[CHAPTER V.]

THE BISHOP'S VISIT.

WE found Sister Sacristine very busy with her silver, of which there was a great deal about the altar, and very glad of our offered help. We went zealously to work, dusting and rubbing up the altar furniture, not forgetting genuflections—curtsies—I should call them now every time we passed before the high altar.

The next day was some Saint's day; I forget whose at this distance of time, and Sister Sacristine, like a faithful woman that she was, was just as anxious to have everything in order as if we were expecting the presence of all the nobles in the country, instead of only a few poor peasants in the Church, and our little band of Mothers and sisters in the choir.

"There will not be many people here!" said the poor lady with a sigh as she settled her chairs. "Ah! Children, many a time have I seen this great church filled from end to end with ladies and gentlemen-I remember when poor Sister Augustine was professed, her father and mother came with a cavalcade, which almost filled the Church of itself; and they offered that pair of silver gilt vases on the Shrine of St. Anne. But times have changed since then, we shall have no one to-morrow."

"We shall have the great Guest of all, dear Sister!" said Amabel. "And where He is, we shall not miss any one else."

"That is true, my child, and yet—it is very hard to see the changes which have been wrought in this house by time and the malice of our enemies. But His will be done! There, children, I believe we have made the best of everything now."

"Sister, let me climb up the ladder, and brush up St. Francis and St. Bernard a little," said I, looking up to where St. Francis stood, with his hands upraised as if he were imploring some celestial power to come down and dust him.

"Well, if you are not afraid—I am too unsteady on my feet to venture upon the ladder any more; but there is a good place to stand, once you are up there."

I was as sure-footed as a goat, so I was not at all timid about ascending the ladder. St. Francis was placed on a little platform or balcony, where, as the Sister said, there was good standing room. Amabel steadied the long ladder, while I ascended, and then reached me up the duster and what else I wanted on the end of a long-handled brush, such as here we call a Pope's head—I would not like to be the one who called it so there. I was holding on to a kind of railing with one hand, and putting St. Francis hair to rights with the other, thinking to myself that the good saint looked as if he liked it, when the Church door opened, and who should come in, breathless as if from running, but Mother Prudentia.

"Sister, you are to come to Mother Superior's room at once, and you also, my children. Lose no time, but Lucille, be careful how you come down."

But I was already on the floor, and ready to follow Mother Prudentia, to the presence of the Superior. Here we found all the sisterhood assembled, and a scared bewildered looking set they were—our dear Mother was as calm as usual, though a pink spot shone on her usually pale cheeks, increasing the brilliancy of her always remarkable eyes. As soon as we were all assembled in order, she addressed us.

"My Mothers and Sisters and you, my children, I have just received by the hands of a special messenger, a letter from the Bishop of this Diocese, in which he tells me that he will arrive within an hour upon a special visitation, to enquire into certain alleged scandals and disorders prevailing in this community."

She paused a moment, and the sisters looked at her and at each other in utter amazement. Amabel gave my arm a little pinch and whispered very softly, "Desireè."

"I can safely say, that I know of nothing in my family which should bring such a charge upon us!" resumed the Superior. "But innocence is not always a protection from the hands of ungodly and cruel men; not that I would be understood, as applying such epithets to Mon seignor the Bishop. Doubtless he has been misinformed. What I would impress on you, my mothers and sisters, is that you should endeavor in this extremity, to preserve an equal and tranquil spirit, wholly resigned to the will of Heaven, whatever may happen. I will not disguise to you, my apprehensions that this visit may be the prelude to great changes—perhaps to grievous hardships and humiliations—possibly even to the breaking up of our little community, which has borne so many storms already. Be that as it may, our duty is plain. Let us set before us the example of the noble Mother Angelique, who, when calumniated and heaped with insults in the very house where she had ruled as Superior, bore all with patience, and never retorted on her persecutors by a look or a word, thus making her enemies ashamed of their cruel malignity. Above all, let us remember that our sufferings may be rendered an acceptable offering to God. My mothers and sisters, let us in the little time that remains, seek the protection of the Queen of Heaven!"

She dropped on her knees as she spoke, and all in the room followed her example. (Nuns have a peculiar sudden fashion of doing this, unattainable without practice. I don't believe I could do it myself now, without falling over on my nose.) It is very much to be hoped that the Blessed Mary does not know the way in which her name is treated in this world, and how to her are attributed the titles which belong only to her Son. But it was all right in my eyes at that time, and when I heard our Lord's mother addressed as the Morning Star, the Gate of Heaven, the Refuge of sinners, etc., I responded "Ora pro nobis" with undoubting faith.

We were still on our knees, when we heard the arrival of a numerous cavalcade before the house, and presently a loud knocking at the gate. Immediately the portress was sent to open it, and we all formed in procession as when we entered Church; the younger sisters at the head and the Superior last. On this occasion she led Amabel and myself by the hand.

Our parlor where the nuns received their guests was a large room sparely furnished with a few very hard chairs, and a most ghastly picture of the death of St. Francis. About one-third of this room was shut off by a grille or grate, as is usual in such places, and behind this was our station.

The outer room was occupied by the Bishop, and two or three attendant priests. Mon seignor was a short, stout man, with rather rebellious white hair, and an expression of a kind of pompous fussiness. He was speaking in a loud and somewhat angry tone to one of his attendants, and I caught the words—

"Intentional disrespect—make an example—perverse rebellious woman—" all of which seemed to come as it were from the depths of his stomach.

We entered slowly, the sisters taking their places with folded hands and down-cast eyes, with as little apparent trepidation as if about to assist at any ordinary ceremony. The Bishop turned sharply around, and spoke before the Abbess had time to advance to the grating.

"So madame! This is the way you receive your Bishop! Did I not send a messenger to acquaint you with my coming? Why then were you not here, prepared to receive me with due respect?"

"Mon seignor!" answered the Superior calmly. "It is not according to the rules of our house for us to await visitors in the parlor. I am bound by those rules, and if our Holy Father the Pope were to honor us with a visit, I would do no otherwise."

The Superior had the best of it, for a nun is bound to obey the "constitutions" of her house to the smallest article, as the Bishop knew very well. But of course, that did not make him feel any more amiable. He was evidently getting ready for a crushing reply, adjusting meantime his glasses on his nose, for he was very short-sighted; but he rather spoiled the effect by getting into difficulties with the string, which held them around his neck. At last however, the glasses were in their place, and he prepared to open his Episcopal batteries.

"Madame!" he began in the sternest tone—but there he stopped. He could now see Mother Superior's face, which I presume he was unable to do before. I never saw so sudden a change. His face seemed to soften and grow youthful in a moment; his lip quivered with a smile, which quite transformed him. He spoke in a very different tone from that in which he began.

"Madame! Is it possible, that I see before me Jacqueline de Rozier?"

It was now the turn of the Abbess to change color. She grew very white, but it was with a steady voice that she answered—"That was my name in the world, Mon seignor—and you?—"

"And I am Henri Garnier—" said the Bishop.

"They told me that you had died in the Indies, by the bite of a poisonous serpent," said the Superior, who had quite recovered her color. "I rejoice Mon seignor, to see you in life and health and filling such an exalted station."

Now at that time of my life I had so far as I know, never even seen the outside of a romance—or heard a love-story—yet I knew in a moment that the Superior and the Bishop had once been in love with each other. I ventured to glance at Mother Bursar, and saw those rebellious dimples of hers, dancing for a moment round the corners of her mouth, though she speedily reduced them to order.

"I was indeed bitten by a serpent in the Island of Martinique, and lay at the very point of death when my regiment sailed for France!" said the Bishop. "I recovered however at last, and by grace of Mary, was led to devote myself to a religious life as well as yourself. Madame, the Superior, and myself are cousins and were playmates in our childhood," he added, turning to his attendants—this time with real dignity of manner. "We have not met since we were both quite young. I rejoice to find her in such a useful and honorable position."

The priests made no answer, but I saw a sly glance of amusement pass between them.

"And now to business!" said the Bishop. "Madame, you have for some time had in your family a pupil and postulant named Desireè de La Mothe, daughter of the present Countess de Crequi by a former husband!"

"It is true, Mon seignor! The young lady in question was returned to her friends about two weeks since."

"And why was she so returned since you had received her as a postulant?"

"Because, Mon seignor, I did not perceive in her any true vocation for the religious life," answered the Superior.

"Then it was not for want of a satisfactory dowry, that she was refused!"

"Far from it, Mon seignor; we are a very poor community, but I can safely say that I would never refuse a postulant with a true vocation, though she came to me with nothing but the clothes she stood in. The Count de Crequi was so good as to offer me a double dowry, if I would consent to receive his step-daughter, but I need not say, I declined."

"And quite rightly!" answered the Bishop. "I wish all heads of religious houses were as disinterested as yourself. But the love of money, my brothers and sisters, is the root of all evil, as the Holy Apostle says. Let us be thankful that our state of life shelters us from its baleful influence. However, to return to the subject of this interview, which it is my painful duty to bring before you." Here he found his box, took a pinch of snuff, and thus fortified, made a fresh start.

"I will not, Reverend Mother, disguise from you the fact that this young lady, Desireè de La Mothe has plainly testified to the existence of certain very grave scandals under this roof; such as are not to be tolerated in any community, much less a religious one. These things having been brought to my ears by my relation by marriage to the Count de Crequi, it becomes my duty to thoroughly investigate them. I have no doubt that such an investigation will turn to your credit and that of your family—" here I saw the two priests again exchange looks—"but nevertheless it is, as you must see, my duty to make it."

"Assuredly, Mon seignor!" answered the Superior. "I have no other wish than to afford you every facility. How would your Greatness wish to proceed?"

"Oh! I suppose the proper way would be to examine each one of the family separately; which I will myself do with your permission. But these are not all!"

"All, Mon seignor! Save one!"

"And the lay sisters?"

"We have none, Mon seignor; our last lay sister died a year ago, at the age of eighty-nine. For a long time all the work of the house and garden has been performed by the choir sisters."

"This is indeed holy poverty!" said the Bishop, turning to his two attendants, who remarked in answer that it was very edifying, one of them adding it was to be hoped that the cares of this life had not distracted the sisters from their religious duties.

"I do not think such cares are apt to have that effect!" said the Bishop somewhat sharply. "How say you, Reverend Mother!"

"We have hitherto been enabled to keep up the practice of perpetual adoration of the holy sacrament," answered the Superior. "At no time since my entrance into the house, has it been suspended for a whole hour. The only sister now absent is at her post in the chapel; nor so far as I know have we failed in any of the other services of our holy religion. The heart of course is known only to God."

"And this is all that remains of the family once numbered by scores!" said the Bishop. "And who are these young ladies?" he asked turning to Amabel and myself, who were close to the grating at one end, as Mother Assistant was at the other.

"These are two young English girls!" was the reply. "Sir Julius Leighton, a Catholic gentleman of England, left them under my charge about thirteen years ago, and they have been with me ever since; but I am expecting to part with them very soon."

This explanation made, the sisterhood were directed to withdraw, while the Superior remained. The Sisters were then called in and examined one by one, returning with very pink faces, and very indignant.

"That wicked Desireè—that snake in the grass!" Such were some of the epithets bestowed upon her. "That she should dare to say that we received the visits of men! As if I ever spoke to a man save the Confessor and old Jacques the gardener, since I was first professed!" said Sister Filomena, bursting into a flood of tears as she rejoined us.

"Hush, my Sister! Compose yourself!" said the Mother Assistant kindly. N. B. * Sister Filomena was about the plainest woman I ever saw, with a moustache, and a perpetual red nose. If the Bishop had not been the Bishop, I should say he had been making game of the poor old soul. "Nobody who knows you can have any doubt of the propriety of your conduct. Come, let these children see you set an example of patience and calmness, and of forgiveness of injuries."

* N. B.—nota bene

"But that wicked girl—what could have induced her to slander us so!" said another sister. "To say that we used up our revenues in feasting."

"And that we—but there is no use in talking!" added Sister Benedict, catching the Mother's eye. "It is too abominable!"

At last it came to Amabel's turn and mine; and hand in hand, as usual, we entered the parlor.

The Bishop had evidently talked himself into high good humor by this time, for he was laughing and offering his snuff-box to his companions. "Ah! And here are the lambs of the flock!" said he, as we somewhat timidly drew near the grating. "Come near, my little daughters, and fear nothing."

He then asked us several questions in a fatherly sort of way, about our families, and we told him all we knew, which was not much.

"And how do you use your time? Come, now," addressing himself to me, "think, and tell me exactly what you were doing, when you were called to the Superior on this occasion."

"I was brushing St. Francis' hair, Mon seignor," I answered simply.

"Brushing St. Francis' hair? What does the child mean; one has heard of dressing St. Catherine's hair, but never of St. Francis', as I think." *

* "Dressing St. Catherine's hair" is a kind of proverbial expression for being an old maid.

I explained, that I was assisting Sister Sacristine to prepare the Church for to-morrow's feast day.

"Ah! Very well, very good—and you, my child?" turning to Amabel!

"I was arranging the flowers on the altar of our Lady, Mon seignor."

"Very good again—there, you may go, and here are some comfits for you, but I daresay you have enough of them since the good sisters make such beautiful sweetmeats, eh!"

"No! Mon seignor, the Mother Bursar sells all the sweetmeats, that she may help the poor women of the village," answered Amabel.

Whereas there was another interchange of looks, and we were permitted to retire, not at all sorry to get off so easily.

The Bishop and his attendant priests were then conducted by the Superior and Mother Assistant, through the whole building. It was even proposed that he should descend and examine the vaults; but this was hastily and decidedly declined, by his Grandeur.

"No! no! That is not needful—we have heard that they are very extensive and curious, however—perhaps Father Andre and his companions would like to inspect them."

"It would not be safe for them to do so without a guide!" said the Superior. "The passages are very intricate and there are dangerous pools of water, but should your Grandeur desire it, Mother Assistant and myself will lead the way."

But it was evident that this description was enough to satisfy any curiosity the Reverend Fathers might have felt on the subject, and as the Bishop did not insist on the matter, no more was said.

While this inspection had been going on, Sister Lazarus and her assistants had been getting up the best collation the resources of the house afforded. Fortunately it was a fast day, and our own ponds supplied us some good fish or the Bishop would have fared poorly. However, we had excellent bread and butter, and cakes and sweetmeats, and a bottle or two of good wine, and his lordship was pleased to express himself highly delighted with his entertainment.

After the collation, we were assembled in the Church, and the Bishop once more addressed us.

He did not disguise the fact that he had come hither with a strong prepossession against the house; having been led by certain persons to believe that the family were guilty of great irregularities, to say the least. He did not say who these persons were, but we knew very well. Contrary to what he expected, he had found great order, the severest poverty and self-denial, and evidence of abundant good works. He did not say those things to puff us up in our own esteem, but that we might be encouraged to persevere, and even to surpass what we had already accomplished. There existed indeed a degree of—he would not say error, much less heresy—but a certain confusion of ideas upon some points of doctrine, which he had no doubt would be dispelled by the perusal of some books which he would have sent to us. It was also said that there was a flaw in our title or charter; he would make it a point to have this matter examined into, and we might be assured that justice would be done.

He then gave us his blessing, exchanged a few words in private with Mother Superior, and rode away.

He was entertained by the Count that evening, and I should not wonder if madame and her daughter, did not find his visit very agreeable.

"Well, it has all turned out better than we had any reason to expect," remarked Mother Bursar.

"It has not turned out yet!" said Mother Prudentia, shaking her head. "We have made an enemy of the Count, and he will not love us the better, because the Bishop has come over to our side. The men of that family know neither pity nor forgiveness; we have not heard the last of it yet—but we are in better hands than his," she added cheerfully—"wicked men can go no farther than is permitted them."

Of course this visit of the Bishop's furnished matter for conversation and gossip for many days. Now that I look back at it, my own opinion is that we owed our escape to the circumstance, that the Bishop had discovered his old sweet-heart in our dear Mother Superior. Probably they had been separated by friends, and the lady had taken the veil on hearing her lover was dead; but that they had been lovers I am as sure, as I am that Simon Sablot is looking for Anne Penberthy. The lad is a good lad, and comes of good family, his parents having been exiles for the truth's sake, and he shall not want my good word when the time comes.

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE MIDNIGHT RAID.

FOR some days—I think about ten—after the bishop's visitation everything went on in the usual train.

On one of these days, the superior received a letter from the bishop, which was speedily communicated to the whole family. His greatness wrote that having had our title and charter investigated by the proper authorities, he had discovered that not only was our community fully entitled to all the land and property that it held, but that it had an undoubted right to some hundreds of acres of very fertile meadow land, lying half a mile away, and at present occupied by the Count de Crequi.

"So we shall get back all that beautiful pasture where the grass grows so early," said Sister Eustachie, the oldest person in the house. "I remember, children, when ye had twenty-five cows in that meadow. Such butter and cheese as we made—but we had a great family then. Well, I hope I may see those lands restored to our holy patrimony."

"I would like to hope so too, sister, but I doubt it!" said Mother Prudentia. "The wolf of Crequi does not let go his prey so easily. For myself, I shall be thankful if we are left to go quietly on our way, as we are doing at present."

I have never said anything about our priest and confessor. He was a middle-aged man, looking old from his white hair, but very hale and active. He lived by himself in a little house in the orchard, from which a sort of arbor, covered with vines, led to the church. He was a kind-hearted, easy-going man, very charitable and self-denying, save in the matter of snuff, of which he took a great deal. He was very fond of his garden, in which he worked early and late.

Amabel and I liked him because he spoke English very well, having once been confessor to a noble family in England. Only for him, I don't know but we should have forgotten our mother tongue entirely; but he used to exercise us in it, making us read to him sometimes, in an English Thomas-à-Kempis he had, sometimes in an English translation from the Vulgate. Oh! How I used to wish I could get that book into my own hands; but the good father guarded it jealously, not allowing us even to turn over a leaf for ourselves. We used to read Psalms and bits of the Gospels, and Old Testament stories, which he picked out for us.

I remember reading in this way about the widow's son of Nain. When I had finished, the priest paused a moment, and then said, reverently:

"My Lucy, do you think of what you read?"

"Yes, my father; I think of it a great deal," I answered, which was quite true.

"But do you make it real to you? Think, for instance, about this story which we have just finished. Think how that poor mother must have dreaded the return to her lonely house; the sitting down to her lonely table, and living on day after day without her son."

"And then how different it all was from what she expected!" said Amabel, musingly. "I should think she would hardly have known how to believe it. She must have felt as if his sickness and death were all a dream."

"And the holy Magdalene after her brother was restored!" said I. (Roman Catholics believe that Mary Magdalene, and the woman who was a sinner, who anointed our Lord's feet, were one and the same person, though there seems to us little or no ground in the scripture for such an idea.) "They were really people, were they not, and felt as we should do?"

"Exactly, my daughter. That is what I wish you to consider. People lose half the benefit of the examples of the holy saints and martyrs, because they do not consider them to have been of the same flesh and blood as themselves."

I have been obliged to the good father all my life for this idea, and especially since I have myself had the instructing of children in the truths of religion. But this is by the way.

Besides being a famous gardener, Father Brousseau had a competent knowledge of surgery and medicine, and made himself very useful in prescribing for the poor people round us. His medicines were generally such as our pharmacy at the convent could provide, especially a bitter cordial, made of orange peel, chamomile, and some of the aromatic herbs with which that country abounds. I have the recipe for this cordial, which I have helped to distil by the gallon. It is excellent for ague and consumption.

It was this medical knowledge of our confessor's which made him a welcome visitor at the Chateau de Crequi, even after the count had quarrelled with our superior. Madame de Crequi was a confirmed invalid, suffering terrible pain and distress at times, from some trouble in her breast. She had had endless doctors who had done her no good but rather harm, and in her despair, hearing of our confessor's gifts in that line, she sent for him. He was, happily, able greatly to alleviate her present suffering, though he told her frankly that there was no cure possible; and he had thus made the poor lady his friend. He had also cured the count's chaplain from a fever which threatened his life.

One day, it happened that the priest was sent for in great haste to see a favorite maid of the countess, who was taken suddenly and violently ill. (I learned all this long afterward, for of course I was not told it at the time.) He returned in the afternoon, and we saw him going in a great hurry to the superior's apartment.

In about half an hour, Mother Prudentia came out, looking a good deal excited, and summoned the whole family to a conference. It was in recreation time, I remember, and we were almost all busy in capturing a vagrant brood of half-grown chickens, which had escaped from their proper quarters, as it seemed, for the express purpose of scratching up a newly planted bed of salad. We were in a great frolic over the chase, for nuns are like children in their hours of recreation—a little thing serves to amuse them. It was therefore with considerable surprise that we obeyed the summons to the superior's presence.

We found the lady pale and evidently much disturbed, though she preserved her usual calmness of voice and demeanor. In a few words, she told us of the danger that was impending over us. She had received sure intelligence that the convent was to be attacked that very night by a band of robbers, pillaged and perhaps burned to the ground.

Even the strict habits of convent discipline could not repress a universal cry of dismay from the sisterhood; but I must say, that after the first alarm, they all behaved wonderfully well. The Reverend Mother raised her hand to impose silence, and was at once obeyed.

"We have no means of defending ourselves, and no time to send to the Bishop for assistance before our foes will be upon us!" said she. "I have taken council with our Reverend Father, and he agrees with me, that our only chance of safety is, to take refuge in the vaults under the old part of the house."

She paused a moment, and some of the sisters looked at each other as if the prospect of spending the night in the vaults was almost as dreadful as that of the robbers themselves.

"The buildings above these vaults are solid and there is little in them to burn," continued the Superior. "So that even should the house be set on fire, we may hope to escape—and the caverns themselves are such, that should the entrance to them be discovered, no one could find our hiding place without the clue; that clue is known at present only to Mother Assistant and myself. Let us then hasten to convey to this place of safety all our most precious treasures, all the sacred vessels and ornaments; and enough of food and lights to serve us if needful for several days; of water there is an abundant supply. Let us all be calm and collected, and let each one obey orders implicitly and without any questions."

She then allotted to each her part. Sister Lazarus with two assistants were to prepare and carry to a certain place a supply of such provisions as would keep the best, and afford the most nourishment in a small compass. I remember, in the midst of all our consternation, smiling at the lamentations of the good sister, over certain delicious creams which had been prepared for the supper-table—that being a feast day.

"But the robbers shall not have them at any rate!" said she with decision. "Here pussy!" And she set down the dish of cream which she held, and which the kitchen cat and her young family lapped up with great satisfaction and much purring.

"Poor little dears, they little know what is before them!" said Sister Lazarus, wiping the tears from her eyes, as she regarded the kittens, which having finished their feast, were licking the stray drops from each other's paws and noses. "I mean to shut them all out in the garden and that will give them a chance. Take care and not shake that basket, Sister! There are some bottles of wine in it and a jug of milk for the children; here, little ones, put these cakes in your pockets."

Grow as we might, we were still the children to dear Sister Lazarus.

The Church was not to be dismantled till after dark, that no suspicions need be awakened. I could not but wonder whether there were any spies among the few peasants who came to vespers. I could not but notice an old woman; she was very specially devout, and when the service was ended, she approached Mother Bursar and whiningly begged a night's lodging.

"I do not think we can keep you on account of the dangerous infectious fever that we have in the house!" said Mother Bursar, telling this outrageous fib doubtless with a clean conscience, as it was for the good of the Church. "But if you choose to risk it, I will ask Mother Superior."

But the old woman had no mind for a lodging under such circumstances and took herself off, closely watched by Mother Bursar from the church door.

"That is an odd-looking woman!" said I. "See how strongly she walks now, though she pretended to be so feeble."

"She is no more a woman than you are!" said Mother Bursar indignantly. "It is that very Jean Dôle to whom I gave a warm pair of hose only last winter. Did I not know him on the instant? I almost wish I had given him a lodging, and locked him up in the Knight's tower; but it is better as it is. Now my children we must work fast—there is no time to lose! Here, Lucille, help me fold these cloths."

"But Jean Dôle is in the employ of the Count!" said I, working while I talked and finding, despite the imminent danger, a certain enjoyment in the bustle. "Can he be, also, in the employ of the robbers?"

"Robbers!" said Mother Bursar contemptuously. "We know where the robbers come from. Take care, child, fold that straight. Perhaps they will find themselves outwitted after all."

By nine o'clock, the principal treasures of the Church—the great silver vases, the candlesticks, and images, and so forth, were all removed to the lower vestibule; and carried from thence to safe hiding places known to Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia.

Then the sisters were assembled in the community-room, for what we all felt might be the last time. Mother Superior addressed a few words to us, exhorting us to firmness, constancy, and trust, and we all kissed her hand and each other. The priest entered, bearing the host, in its magnificent receptacle, blazing with jewels, and we all prostrated ourselves before it. Then he passed out of the room, and we followed in order as in an ordinary procession; we went through the upper hall and descended the great stairs to the lower floor.

Then instead of seeking the door by which Amabel and myself had descended to the vaults, we went down to the basement by a staircase of which I had never, till then, known the existence. So true it is, as I have said before, that one may live in a convent a long time, yes, even for many years, and yet know very little about it. We passed through a long hall, with doors opening here and there, and then there was a pause, while Mother Prudentia unlocked and opened a massive door, the existence of which I should never have suspected, for it looked exactly like a piece of the wall. Through this we passed one by one, and it was then closed after us.

The lights were now trimmed anew and lanterns distributed among us. We were warned to follow exactly, and not to look either to right or left, but to keep our eyes fixed on our leader. Why, I don't know, unless that our minds might not be distracted by the sight of the labyrinth we were threading. At last we reached the end of our dismal journey. We found ourselves in a kind of suite of apartments, drier and more commodious than could have been expected in such a place. There must have been some communication with the outer world, for the air, though damp and chill, was not foul nor oppressive.

In the first vault were stored our provisions, clothes, and other such matters which we had saved. In the next were beds hastily made of straw mattresses and all the warm coverings that could be mustered. A little side-room was fitted up as a chapel, with an altar, on which was placed the usual furniture, while a small lamp hung before it. On this altar the priest deposited the host. It was time for our last evening service, and we went through it as usual, though it must be confessed that some of the sweet voices quivered a little as they chanted the responses. It was not till now that we observed one of our number to be missing.

"Where is Sister Filomena?" asked two or three voices.

"She is in a place of safety, or so I trust," answered the Superior calmly. "Pray for her, my sisters."

We took this for a hint that we were to ask no more questions, but we wondered all the more. Sister Filomena was the one of whom I have spoken before as being so very ugly. She was tall and boney, with particularly large hands and feet, and a masculine walk. She had a decided beard, and owing to some disease, I suppose, her face, and particularly her nose, were as red as an old toper's. She was a widow of some years standing when she took the vows, and before her conversion, she had lived much in the gay world of Toulon, where, despite her ugliness, she had been a great favorite, and had maintained a very popular salon.

Sister Lazarus had caused to be transported to the vault a little earthen-ware furnace for charcoal, such as are much used in France. This she lighted, and served us each with a famous cup of chocolate—a luxury never enjoyed by us except on very grand feast days. I think smells are more powerful in awakening old associations than anything else. The smell of a fresh cup of chocolate always brings that scene vividly before me—the dimly-burning shaded lights, which made our pale faces doubly ghastly in appearance—the damp walls of whitish grey rock—the little chapel with its ornaments glittering as the tapers flared a little—I can see all this, and hear the soft drop and splash of water, regular almost as the ticking of a clock, which fell on our ears, and now and then a curious moaning sound coming no one knew from whence.

"What is that?" said one of the sisters rather fearfully, as a louder moan than usual made itself felt rather than heard.

"It is a sound always heard in these vaults," replied the Superior.

"I used to hear in my day that it was the spirits of the poor souls that the old heathen imprisoned here and left to starve," said Sister Eustachie, who was very old and childish.

"You don't think it is that, do you, Reverend Mother?" asked one of the nuns rather timidly.

"No, my child, I think it is only the wind which finds entrance somewhere and cannot get out again, or some escape of imprisoned gas from the earth. Whatever it may be, it is but a sound," answered the Superior. "Let me beg of you, not to disturb your minds with idle fears. Let all lie down and rest while it is possible. Mother Assistant and myself will watch before the Holy Sacrament."

I had no wish to lie down, nor, as I think, had any of the others, but in a convent, one learns to obey without a word—not so bad a lesson either, where young persons are concerned. So we lay down on our straw beds and covered ourselves as warmly as we could, and, despite their fears, I heard some of the nuns snoring in five minutes' time.

I thought I should never go to sleep, but the sound of the falling water, the softly murmuring voices of the priest and the two mothers saying the litanies, and the gentle swaying of the suspended lamp lulled me at last into a slumber. I dreamed that I was trying to reach something from the upper shelf of a certain dark storeroom cupboard, when some one violently slammed the door on me. The noise awoke me with a start.

All the sisters were on their feet in an instant, but the gesture of the abbess imposed silence, and not a word was said.

We heard a shout of—"Open in the king's name—" And then a furious attack upon the great gate which led from the outer court into the garden. It sounded frightfully near. In a moment it fell, and we could hear the footsteps of our enemies, as it seemed, over our heads. They may have been so for ought I know.

We were all on our knees by this time before the little altar—some on their faces. Only the Superior stood erect and calm.

The noise partially died away—I suppose while the ruffians were searching for us. Then they gathered again in the court with every expression of anger and disappointment. We could hear every word that was said. They had evidently pushed off the cover of the old well, and one of them dropped a great stone into it. The noise which resounded through the vaults was awful beyond description.

"Our birds are flown!" said a voice. "And they have stripped their nest pretty completely."

"They are not flown—they have only gone to earth!" said another voice, which I thought I had heard before. "Follow me, and we will soon have them out."

In a few minutes we heard the noise of a door forced, and heavy, armed heels noisily descending. The sisters gathered closer around the superior.

"They have found the entrance under the great stairs," said the superior. "Keep perfectly still, and fear nothing, but pray for the souls of our enemies. They do but rush on their own destruction."

Mother Prudentia whispered a few words to the superior, and, receiving a nod in return, took up a lantern and glided away so suddenly that, though I was watching eagerly, I could not have told for my life which way she went.

There was evidently a good deal of hesitation among the enemy, for I heard the same voice proclaim loudly: "A purse of gold for the one who unearths the old cats. There! I see the gleam of a lantern even now."

It could have been but two or three minutes, before we heard a sudden splash, followed in a second by another and a horrible scream of mortal anguish, which echoed and re-echoed as if a hundred demons were mocking the drowning wretches. There was one half-strangled cry for help—a rush—and then all was still for a few minutes, till Mother Prudentia returned to us with her lantern, and her shoes covered with mud and slime.

"Two of them have fallen in—the only two who ventured to follow me!" said she. "I stepped aside, thinking that they would stop when they lost sight of me, but I suppose the gleam on the water deceived them. Poor wretches!"

There was an interval of silence, during which we all softly recited the prayer for souls in extremis.

"What are they doing now?" asked one of our number.

"They are setting fire to the buildings. Do you not smell the smoke?" said the priest. "But we have little to fear, even in that case. A storm has been gathering all day and is about to burst. Do you not hear the thunder? 'The Lord shall fight for us, and we will hold our peace.'"

I had heard what sounded like thunder two or three times, but there were so many noises that I had taken little heed to it. Now, however, came a tremendous crash, and a faint gleam of lightning showed what I had before suspected—that we were near some place which opened to the air—perhaps to the old well in the court, which would account for our hearing so plainly.

The rush of rain which followed must have at once extinguished the fires, and no doubt drove our enemies into the buildings for shelter. For a time, we heard nothing but the tremendous thunder and the rain. Then I began to be sensible of another sound, unlike anything, unless it be the rushing of a stream swollen by a torrent.

"What is that?" asked some one.

"Hush!" said the priest, imperatively.

We all listened. The sounds grew louder.

"They have digged a pit, and fallen into the midst of it themselves!" said the priest exultingly. "'In the snare that they laid privily is their foot taken.' Our friends have arrived, and we are saved."

In effect, we heard in a moment, a tremendous outcry, many shots fired, and other sounds which told us that a combat was going on. The tumult died away by degrees, but was renewed once or twice, as though the robbers were making a desperate defense. There was an interval of silence, and then a manly, cheerful voice called aloud, as it seemed, from the stairs:

"The reverend mothers and sisters may now come from their hiding places without fear. Their enemies are all prisoners in the hands of the king's troops. Laudate dominium."

I suppose this Latin phrase was a kind of watchword to let our superiors know that all was right. Anxious as we all were to escape from our prison, there was no haste. We arranged our dresses as decently as possible, for in a convent one learns to dress without the help of a mirror; the priest took up the Host, and, in procession as we descended, we emerged to the light of day—for it was now morning, and the sky was brightening toward sunrise. We found the court occupied by a company of soldiers, with a young officer in command, keeping guard over a number of prisoners. Several dead bodies were stretched out on the stones, and two or three wounded wretches were groaning among them.

Officers and men saluted reverently as the Host was borne past them, and all but those necessary to guard the prisoners, followed into the church. We took our places in the choir, and mass was said at the despoiled altar. Then, measures were taken for the care of the wounded. Two expired almost immediately, in the very act of confession; the other lingered a few days, and died, so Sister Baptista told me, very humble and penitent.

But what a sad sight was our poor house! Windows were dashed to pieces, furniture broken and destroyed in mere wantonness. Our beautiful garden was a trampled waste—even the great rose bush said to have been planted by the hands of Mother Angelique herself, and one of our greatest treasures, was hacked off at the roots.

"The wretches—the wicked sacrilegious villains!" exclaimed Sister Lazarus, bursting into tears as she came on the body of her favorite cat, and saw the poor kittens trying in vain to attract their mother's notice. "I can't help it, if it is wicked—I am glad they fell into the pool—I hope it was the very one that killed my cat—our cat I mean," added the sister, correcting herself, for in a convent it is a great sin to say that any thing is mine. "I made an act of forgiveness when I found my beautiful stew-pans all dashed to pieces, but such a sight as this is too much."

So saying she gathered the bereaved little kittens into her apron and carried them off to comfort them as she best could. One of our cows had been shot, as it seemed, in sheer wantonness; the other being shut in a cow-house at the bottom of the orchard had escaped.

It was only natural that a few tears should be shed over the destruction of pet plants and fowls and the general desolation, but there was no giving way to idle sorrow. All set to work with a will to put things in the best order possible, and so industrious were we, that by the next day when the bishop arrived, things had assumed something of their usual aspect.

But no pains of ours could restore vines and flowers, or set up the ruined fountain, or mend the beautiful and wonderful stained glass, whose fragments strewed the court, or bring our poor old dog and cow to life. The bishop brought with him a magistrate and other officers, and there was a great examination and perquisition about the affair, but I don't know how it was—the thing was hushed up after a while and nothing was done. Only the bishop paid two or three visits, and finally it was made known among us that before cold weather came, the community would be moved to a smaller but much more comfortable and secure house near Toulon.

I must not forget to say that Sister Filomena arrived in the train of the bishop, riding all by herself in a litter, and dressed in a brand new robe of quite another fashion from ours. We were surprised enough to see her, and still more to hear that it was she who had carried the news of our danger to Toulon.

"That is the advantage of being ugly you see, my sisters," said the good nun, laughing, as we pressed around to listen to her adventures. "In Marie's red petticoat and grey jacket, and mounted on the good father's mule, nobody thought me anything but a peasant carrying fowls to market. I had the good luck to meet, the very first thing, an Abbè whom I used to know when I was in the world. I could think of no better way than to make myself known to him, and he took me directly to the bishop's palace, where I told my story. His housekeeper found me some clothes, and I went at once to the Ursuline Convent, where they treated me like a princess, but you may guess I did not sleep for thinking of your danger, and wondering whether the soldiers would arrive in time."

"But why did not Father Brousseau go himself?" asked some one.

"What a wise question! Because they would have been on the watch for him, and would have known him at once; but no one suspected me."

"It was a dreadful thing to do!" said Sister Baptista. "Of course it was very good in you to sacrifice yourself, but I do think it was shocking."

"I suppose it was," said Sister Filomena; "and the worst of it is, I am afraid I enjoyed it after all."

That very day, we heard that the nephew and heir of the Count de Crequi with an attendant had fallen from the rocks while fishing, and that their bodies had been swept away by the waves and never found. A requiem was said for them in the church with all due solemnity, at which, however, none of the family were present. For my own part, remembering the voice I had heard and that fearful plunge into the water, I have little doubt that the bones of the young count and his follower lie at this moment under the black and slimy waters of that dreadful pool.

[CHAPTER VII.]

A SUMMONS.

IN the course of a week, all things had settled into their usual way with us. The ornaments were restored to the church, and the damage to the building was repaired as far as possible by workmen sent by the bishop from Toulon. The bishop praised our community to the skies, and caused a contribution to be taken for our benefit among the good folks of Toulon, who were very liberal on the occasion. The nuns took notice of it as a good omen, that the Mother Angelique's rosebush, which had been cut down, began directly to sprout from the root. I really think this little accident gave them more comfort and hope than all the bishop's assistance and promises.

Another consoling circumstance was the recession of the water in the subterranean pool. Mother Prudentia, who had had occasion to visit the vaults several times, to bring out from their concealment, things which had been hidden away on the night of the attack, told us that the water was falling rapidly, so that places heretofore impassable were now quite dry. It seemed as if the spirit which dwelt in those awful depths was content with the victims he had received, and wished for no more.

I have said that things fell into their usual train, and so it seemed at first; but presently it became apparent that the health of our dear mother superior was rapidly failing. Though over sixty at the time of the robbers' visit, she had hitherto shown her age very little, but now she seemed to grow old all at once. She had a cough, and a slight spitting of blood, and began to be subject to fainting fits. She herself attributed her illness to a cold taken in the cavern. I think now that the strain of that terrible night, with, perhaps, the added agitation of seeing again the lover she had so long believed dead, were too much for a frame already enfeebled with fasting.

I do verily believe that those people who are said to bear trouble the best are those who are usually most affected by it. Some, indeed, get the credit of enduring with patience and cheerfulness things which really trouble them very little, and such people are usually excessively impatient of the grief of others. But I must not stop to moralize, or I shall never get to the end of my story.

One day, the mother superior announced to the family as a settled thing that in the course of the following October, the community would be removed to a much smaller but more comfortable house in the neighborhood of Toulon, which was at that very time being fitted up for its reception. This house, she said, was a small chateau, formerly called Fleurs, which belonged to the Count de Crequi, and had been given by him to the community on condition that certain services should be performed in perpetuum for the soul of his unfortunate heir and nephew, who had been drowned while fishing.

We were surprised enough to hear this news, for the Count de Crequi was well-known to be an out and out infidel, if not an atheist. In France you may have no religion at all with impunity. It is even rather a genteel thing to believe in nothing and nobody but Monsieur Voltaire; but if you set up to have a religion at all, you must be content to take that which the king prescribes for you.

But the death of the young count was a terrible blow to his uncle, who had no son and was not like to have any. And it may be, that the poor old man thought it best, in case he might, after all, be mistaken, to have friends at court, as it were.

He was, indeed (so I have since understood), held up afterward as a shining instance of conversion by the Jesuits, under whose influence he fell—but I never heard that his conversion led him to give up that twenty-five acres of meadow, which had been exacted from our sisterhood as the price of his protection, or to pay for the ruin of our buildings, caused by his secret emissaries on night of the robbery.

However this might be, there was no doubt that he had given us a new dwelling, to which we were all to be removed before the coming on of cold weather.

The church was to be kept up, with a resident priest to say mass. The other parts of the building would be closed.

This news was received with varying feelings by the sisters. The elders wept, and regretted that they must leave the place which had been their home so long, and the graves of those who had been their companions in youth. The younger sisters were divided, as was natural, between sorrow at parting and the novelty of a new house and situation.

"I shall never live to see the day!" said poor old Mother Baptista. "And I don't wish to. I was brought to this house when I was too young to remember anything. I was professed at fourteen, * and in all these years, I have not been outside of these walls. Here I have lived, and here I will die and be buried."

* A nun would not be received at this age in any order I am acquainted with, but such things were common enough at that time in France.

"But we must, be obedient, you know, dear mother," said Sister Filomena, trying to soothe her.

"Of course we must be obedient. I hope I know that by this time!" answered the old mother, rather tartly. "All the same, I shall never leave these walls. I shall be buried here."

"I cannot help hoping that the change will benefit dear mother's health!" said another sister. "She has never been well since that dreadful night in the vaults."

"I fear our dear reverend mother will never be well again!" said Mother Prudentia, shaking her head. "She fails every day. I sometimes think she will not live to see us settled in our new home."

"It will never be home without her," said Sister Agnes, sadly. "How many times she has been elected superior. No; I am sure no other place will seem like home after we have lived here so long."

"So much the better for us, perhaps," returned Mother Prudentia. "You know, my child, that we are to have here no continuing city, but we seek one to come."

"Still I cannot help hoping the change may do good," said Sister Angela. "I sometimes fancy all that water under the house may make it unhealthy. I wonder if the new house stands in a high and airy situation."

"It does, I know," said Amabel.

"Why, how should you know anything about it, child?" said Mother Prudentia, surprised.

"Lucy and I lived there before we came here," answered Amabel. "The moment reverend mother spoke the name, I remembered the place quite well. It stands on a hill, and one can see a great way. There are a good many rooms, and a flower garden, with fountains and a terrace. I can recollect that. But it is very much smaller than this house."

"So much the better. I never do like to think of these great empty halls and buildings, especially at night!" said Sister Agnes, as Mother Prudentia left us. "One never can guess who or what may be lurking in them."

"You had better not let Mother hear you say so, or she will be sending you from one end of them to the other!" remarked Sister Angela. "If I dreaded it as much as you do, I would force myself to do it just for a mortification."

To do something you particularly dislike, is a great point with some devout nuns; I have seen a sister ordered to pick up a spider and let it run over her face, only because she showed a disgust at the creature. This however, was in the former Mother Assistant's time; I don't think Mother Prudentia was much given to such performances.

I was naturally very much interested in the prospect of seeing again the house where we had lived on our first coming abroad. The name of Fleurs had awakened in my mind certain dim recollections, but it was as when one strives to recall a dream. I plied Amabel with questions, to most of which I received rather unsatisfactory answers, for though her reminiscences were clearer than mine, they were still those of a mere child.

In the excitement through which we had lately passed, and the prospect of a change of residence—not to mention our anxiety about dear Mother's health—we had almost forgotten that we had or were likely to have any other home than the convent. So that when one day in August, we were summoned from our task of splitting apricots to dry, to attend to the Superior, we thought of almost anything, rather than a message from England. I know my own mind was running on a very different subject, namely, thinking that I had gone out of bounds that very morning, having run down to the end of the orchard after a rare butterfly, and wondering whether Mother had seen me.

We found the dear lady lying back in her great chair, an unusual indulgence for her who usually sat up straight as an arrow. She looked thin and worn, and her hands were white and transparent like alabaster; but her wonderful eyes were as bright as ever, and she had a lovely color in her cheeks, which I in my ignorance, took for a sign of returning health. She held an open letter in her hand, and I fancied that she had been weeping.

We knelt and kissed her hand, and she gave us her blessing as usual. She then bade us to be seated on two stools, one on each side of her, and laid a hand on each of our heads.

"My dear children!" said she. "I have heard from Sir Julius Leighton."

We both started, and I forgot all about that wicked butterfly.

"He tells me that being unable to come for you himself, he has sent for you by the hands of a ship's captain sailing from Newcastle, to bring you to that town. From thence, you will be sent to the house of Sir Julius Leighton's sisters, who reside not far from that place. It seems that this worthy man has brought his sister with him, in order that you may have a female companion and guardian—a measure which speaks well for him. This good woman will arrive to-night, and be our guest for two or three days while your wardrobes are being got in order. And it must be your business, my children, to make her stay as pleasant as possible."

We had neither of us spoken, of course, while this address was being made, but the moment it was finished, Amabel fell on her knees and burst into a flood of tears.

"Dear Mother, do not send us away among strangers!" said she between her sobs! "Let us live and die here with you, and the mothers and sisters we have known so long; you are our only mother on earth, do not send us away from you."

The lady was affected even to tears; and it was some moments before she could command her voice to speak.

"Dear child, it is not I who send you away!" said she at last. "I have no right to detain you when your father demands your presence. Be calm, my Aimeè! I am not able to bear this agitation;" and indeed her changing color alarmed me.

Amabel made a desperate effort to control herself, and succeeded so far as to become quiet, though she could not speak.

"I would indeed gladly see you both in the safe shelter of the cloister," continued dear Mother, stroking Amabel's head, as she still knelt beside her; "but even that shelter is not always a protection in these days. But your father has the right to dispose of you, and if he requires that you should return to him, you have no choice but to obey. It is hard for me to part with you, my little ones, but the parting must have come at any rate, since I must soon leave you, even if you did not leave me."

"Dear Mother do not say so!" I ventured to say.

"We all hope that the change will do you good; everyone says that the new house is in a more healthy situation than this."

"I shall remove to another house before that change is made, my child;—even to that house which is not made with hands. But do not let it grieve you over-much. To me it is a joyful prospect, especially as I shall leave the little flock I have ruled so long, in comparative ease and safety. But now listen, my little ones, to the last words I may be able to say to you—for my strength may fail at any time, and I believe my end to be nearer than Father Brousseau thinks."

She then proceeded to give us much advice regarding our future conduct—excellent, I am sure, from her own way of looking at things, though some of it was quite impossible to any one living in the world. But most of it was very good, and has always been of use to me.

And I may say here, that since I have myself had the ordering of a family of young people, I have found the advantage of many things I learned under our dear mother's rule—such as the habit of doing everything in the exact time of it, and not letting one duty, as it were, tread on the heels of another. At St. Jean, when the bell struck the hour of recreation, all work must be dropped on the instant; and the same was true of our play. One might think this would be often very inconvenient, but knowing that it must be so, one learned to make one's arrangements accordingly, and thus much time was saved.

Then we acquired habits of neatness and order, to do even the least thing in the best way, and turn everything to the best account. Many a child's garment have I seen got out of bits of linen or flannel, that an ordinary English housewife would throw away; many a warm and even pretty rug, for the feet of an invalid or an old person. And if the girls in our school can darn a rent, or put on a patch, or work a heel into a worn-out stocking, better than anybody in the duchy—though I say it that shouldn't—it is owing at second hand to the teaching of dear Mother Prudentia.

Of course, Amabel and I waited with no little impatience for the arrival of our traveling companion. She came about three o'clock, and was kindly received and lodged in the most comfortable place the sisters could prepare for her, while Amabel and myself waited on her. She was a very good specimen of a middle-class English woman—fat and fair, with a clear, rosy complexion, and undeniably red hair, which, nevertheless, was both pretty and becoming. She was about forty years old, and had a frank, motherly way with her which made me take to her at once. She looked a good deal surprised and rather awe-stricken at the strange place in which she found herself, but she responded with all due politeness to the apologies which Sister Agnes made concerning her lodgings, and which we translated to her as well as we could—for though Mrs. Thorpe could speak French after a fashion, she did not understand it well.

"My dears, do ask the good lady not to trouble herself," said she, at last. "What is good enough for her is certainly good enough for any one like me. I am a sailor's wife anyhow, and used to roughing it in all sorts of ways."

Sister Agnes was finally satisfied, and took her departure; and Mrs. Thorpe sat down on the side of the narrow bed and began to unpack the great bag she had brought in her hand.

"Your father has sent you each a purse of money," said she, producing them; "there ought to be five guineas in each; count them and see. Always count money as soon as you receive it. Is it all right?"

We satisfied her on this point. What a wonderful novelty it seemed to have some money of our own.

"I am to provide you new clothes, and all you want for your journey," continued Mrs. Thorpe. "But I think, if you will allow me to judge, that you had better not buy a great deal in Toulon, as fashions are so different here and in England, and I fancy my ladies, your aunts, will not much relish French ways."

We professed ourselves anxious of being guided by Mrs. Thorpe's judgment in all things, and Amabel asked:

"Do you know my aunts, madame?"

"Why, no, not to say know them. They are great ladies, you see, and I am but a seaman's widow, keeping a shop for laces and small wares in Newcastle. But they have been in my shop, so that I know them well by sight. My dears," she added, abruptly changing the subject, as she pulled out from her bag—which seemed to have no bottom—a couple of bulky parcels, "just see! I have ventured to bring the lady of the house—I don't know what to call her—"

"The mother superior," said I.

"Well, I have taken the liberty, not knowing exactly what she would like, to bring her a parcel of coffee and loaf sugar. Do you think she would be offended at the liberty?"

"No, indeed!" said I. "Dear mother is never offended when any one wishes to please her, and I am very glad you have brought the things. Sister Lazarus was saying only yesterday how much she wished she had some coffee to tempt Mother Superior, for she hardly eats anything at all."

"Then I am in the nick of time; but, excuse me, my dears, why did not Sister Lazarus—it seems a queer name for a woman—why did not she send and buy some coffee, if the lady wished for it. When a delicate person takes a fancy for some particular thing to eat, 'tis always best to supply it at once, before they change their minds."

"She would have been glad to do so, but she had no money, I believe," I answered. "We are a very poor community nowadays. I heard Mother Bursar say she should have no more money till she sold her oil."

"Lack-a-day, poor thing! But in that case methinks I would sell some of those grand vases and things I saw in the church," said Mrs. Thorpe with decision. "However, that is no business of mine. I am glad you think the things won't come amiss. And is the poor lady very ill?"

"Father Brousseau thinks she will never be well!" said Amabel sadly.

"Poor thing! But no doubt she is prepared to go, and the change will be a blessed one. From what you say, I should think she must be a good Christian according to her lights, and a man is accepted according to what he hath, and not according to what he hath not."

Amabel and I looked at each other surprised and half offended, while the good woman talked on, unconscious of offence, asking many questions and making many shrewd remarks.

We left her at last to rest a little before supper, and retired by ourselves to compare notes on our new acquaintance.

"Well, what do you think about her?" I asked.

"I like her," said Amabel with decision. "She is not like our sisters here, of course, but I think she is good and kind."

"Yes, it was nice in her to bring mother the coffee and sugar, and to give us these things," said I, examining the pretty and convenient "equipages" for the pocket which Mrs. Thorpe had presented to us. "But I did not like the way she spoke about dear mother."

"She is a Protestant, you know, and I suppose our ways are as strange to her, as hers are to us," replied Amabel. "Of course if they think they are right, they must believe we are wrong."

"But, Amabel, it seems that your aunts are Protestants," said I, for Mrs. Thorpe had told us as much. "How shall we get on with them?"

"It will be time enough to decide that when we are there," replied Amabel. "I don't think Protestants are all bad, Lucy. My mother was one, and so was yours, and I am sure she never taught us anything that was not good."

"Mother Superior says no Protestants will be saved except by reason of their invincible ignorance," I remarked, "or unless they are capable of acts of pure love to God, which are very difficult even to good Catholics. And besides, Amabel, our 'examination of conscience' says it is a betrayal of the Catholic Church to say that all religions are good, and that a man may be saved in one as well as another, and that it is a great sin even to read a heretical book or hear a heretical preacher. Now suppose that your aunts should insist on our going to the English Church with her—what shall we do?"

"We shall see when the time comes," said Amabel. "I never found much use in making up my mind beforehand. Either the thing you expect never comes, or else it comes in such a different way that all your preparations are of no use at all."

This was Amabel's way, and has been all her life, and certainly it has seemed to serve her very well. I have never seen any one pass through with so little of what we call fretting. She has had many serious troubles, but very few worries, while I must confess I have generally had my troubles three times over—before they came, while they lasted, and after they were gone.

After supper Mother Prudentia came to us with a very grave and sad face.

"The English lady is to go to Mother Superior, in her own room, at once," said she.

"In her own room?" I repeated, very much surprised.

The "Community Rooms" in a convent are sacred from any profane foot, so that one may be a pupil in such a house a dozen years and never enter them. The peculiar circumstances of our family placed Amabel and myself on a somewhat different footing from ordinary pupils, so that we were treated rather as postulants, but even we had never been in the rooms which opened from the Superior's parlor.

"Yes," answered the mother sadly. "Dear Mother Superior is not able to go any farther than the outer room. She tried going to the parlor but she was not able. I fear she will never descend those stairs again. You may call madame—I cannot say her name for my life—and lead her to madame's room."

Mrs. Thorpe was walking with Sister Agnes in the flower garden. It was this sister's office to attend upon guests, and I think she was well-pleased with having a chance to exercise it once more. She could not understand Mrs. Thorpe's French much better than her English, but happily they were both devoted to flowers, and the language of sympathy and admiration are much the same all over the world.

We explained to Mrs. Thorpe that she was to go with us to the Superior, and led her through the long hall and up the great stairs to the lady's room.

"What a great castle of a place!" said Mrs. Thorpe, looking round her and speaking in a half whisper. "Where do all these doors go to?"

"To different rooms and cells, I believe," replied Amabel. "I do not think any of them are used at present. A great deal more than half the house is shut up. See, this is Mother Superior's door."

Amabel scratched on the door with her nails as our convent fashion was, and it was opened to us by Mother Prudentia. The Superior received Mrs. Thorpe very graciously; it was not in her nature to be otherwise than kind even to a heretic. Mrs. Thorpe was evidently greatly impressed, and somewhat awe struck with the lady's dignity—nevertheless she conducted herself toward her with a kind of respectful frank independence, which made me like her all the more.

They had quite a long conversation, Amabel interpreting where it was needful. Among other things, the Superior asked Mrs. Thorpe to promise that she would in no way influence us in matters of religion.

"That I cannot promise, because it may not be in my power, my lady!" answered Mrs. Thorpe frankly. "I will promise so much as this, that I will enter into no arguments with the young ladies; for which indeed, I am no ways qualified, being but a plain woman with only wit enough to read my Bible, and do my duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me. But I strive as a Christian woman to rule my household in the fear of God, and according to the lights He has given me. If these young ladies should be my guests for a time, I can only promise to be as faithful to them as I would have been to my own girls, if the Lord had spared them to me."

This pledge which Amabel faithfully translated, seemed to give dear mother more satisfaction than I should have expected. I think she was so near the Eternal gates, that the light was already shining for her, which makes all things plain. Mother Prudentia was called out at this moment, and there was a little silence.

"She ought not to talk any more!" whispered Mrs. Thorpe. "She is tired out now."

The words were not out of her mouth, before dear Mother fainted entirely away.

"Don't be alarmed! It is but a fainting-fit," said Mrs. Thorpe, catching her in her arms, laying her back in her chair and applying to her nose a smelling-bottle, which she took from her pocket—all in the space of an instant. "Run one of you, and bring some wine or strong waters, and call one of the ladies—you, my dear, open the window and help me to loosen her dress."

As we unloosed her girdle and opened her dress, I saw that she wore a sharp cross on her bosom and that her undergarment was of the roughest woolen, which must have been very irritating and distressing in hot weather. I glanced at Mrs. Thorpe, and saw a look of anger and disgust on her honest face.

"Poor thing, poor thing!" she muttered. "As if she could not trust the Lord to send her all the trouble she needed, without making more for herself; they must needs be wise, above what is written—there, don't cry, my dear, she is coming to herself. See, her lips are getting quite a color, poor lady."

Mother Prudentia now appeared, and with her help, Mother Superior was so far revived as to be moved to her bed. Father Brousseau had come home by that time, and was at once called in to see her.

"It is the beginning of the end!" said he, as he came out of the room. "We shall hear the cry at midnight. Behold the Bridegroom cometh; let all be in readiness to receive Him."

We had our usual recreation after supper, but no one cared for the merriment which generally took place at that hour. The sisters walked up and down in threes and fours—it was against our rules for two to walk together—weeping and talking or entering the little Lady chapel, which stood in the grounds, to say a prayer before the altar, where was an image of the Virgin which had worked miracles in its time. This little chapel had been entirely forgotten at the time of the robbery, and had been also overlooked and left untouched by the robbers; a circumstance which was considered a miracle in itself, and brought the image into greater favor than ever. And by the way, if the worship is paid not to the image, but to the person whom it represents, I wonder why some images of the Virgin are so much more sought after than others.

We walked in the garden with Mrs. Thorpe, showed her different places about the house, and told her the story of the midnight assault.

"And what will be done with the robbers!" said she.

"None of them have been taken!" I answered. "They say the whole thing will be hushed up, because a noble family is mixed up in it. And we think—Amabel and I do," I added in a whisper; "that it was the young Count who was drowned in the vaults; we heard him talking when he was here before with his uncle, and he had such a curious hoarse voice. I am sure it was the same."

"Served him right!" said Mrs. Thorpe indignantly. "Pretty doings! A family of ladies are set upon in their own house, and made to hide like rats in a damp musty hole, where one at least has got her death; and it is to be hushed up, forsooth, because a noble family is mixed up in it? Well! There, I won't say a word—" as Amabel put her finger on her lip—"but only this to free my mind. I can tell you what, my maids; sometime or other, there will be a fearful uprising against the nobles and rulers of this land. It may not come in our day, but it will surely come. What is that for?" As the bell struck it accustomed signal.

We told her it was for the evening service, and asked her to attend. Father Brousseau came himself to invite her, but she declined.

"I am not sure that I should be able to join in the worship with a clear conscience, and I should not like to offend the good ladies by sitting a mere looker on!" said she. "With your leave I will remain here."

"All Protestants are not so scrupulous as yourself!" said Father Brousseau. "I have seen them not only spectators of our services, but very irreverent, and even noisy ones."

"They are not of my mind, then!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have seen the same thing in my travels, and been disgusted with it."

We went into the church, and left Mrs. Thorpe to amuse herself in the garden.

By half past eight, as our rule was, we were all in bed, except the sister at her post in the chapel, and Mother Prudentia and Sister Filomena (who was one of the tenderest and most skillful of nurses), who watched with Mother Superior. The priest was right; about midnight we were all called to our dear Mother's room. The door of her cell was open, and we all stood or knelt in the outer room, while the priest administered the last rites of the Church. The Superior was supported in Mother Prudentia's arms, breathing in soft sighs, but not seeming to suffer; we watched her, as it seemed, a long time after the rites were concluded; her face was peaceful, and we could not be sure whether she breathed or not.

At last she roused herself, turned her head toward us, smiled, and raised her hand as in blessing; it fell; the dear eyes closed, and the voice of the priest pronouncing the last solemn words, told us all was over. We joined in the last prayers, and then withdrew from the chamber of death; to spend the night in watching, or to cry ourselves to sleep.

The weather was too warm for the funeral to be delayed, and the Bishop himself came to celebrate it on the third day. I never saw a man so changed in so short a time; all his patronizing pompous fussiness was gone; his face was pale and sunken, and he looked in every way like a man who was not long for this world. I caught myself wondering whether he and dear Mother would not have served God just as well if they had married, and brought up a family, as Mrs. Thorpe had told us many English bishops did; but I put away the thought as blasphemous, and said several extra Hail Mary, by way of penance. It did not occur to me, to think that it was not very complimentary to her, to make an address to her an instrument for punishing myself.

The dear lady was laid in the cemetery, amidst the dust of those who had gone before her for hundreds of years. The next day, the sisters held an election and, as every one expected, Mother Prudentia was made Superior. I am sure a better choice could not have been made on the whole, though I do not believe she would ever rule the household as the late mother had done. She herself shrank from the responsibility, and earnestly wished that Sister Filomena might be chosen; but "ask nothing, refuse nothing," is the rule in convents (at least it was in ours) and she could not decline.

It was on the evening of this day, that Amabel and I were very busily at work. Mrs. Thorpe was in the still-room with Sister Agnes, learning and imparting wonderful secrets concerning the making of Hungary and Elder flower waters, and I know not what else. She was improving rapidly in the matter of French, for she would speak it right or wrong, laughing at her own blunders, when Sister Agnes was too polite to do so. With the other sisters she had little or no intercourse except by bows and smiles; I think they looked upon her as some half-tamed animal, allowed to run at large, but not exactly safe after all.

Father Brousseau had once or twice tried to draw her into an argument, but without success. At least, he asked her the favorite question, which is considered a knock down by Roman Catholics. "Where was the Protestant church two hundred years ago?"

"Will your Reverence allow me to ask you a question in my turn?" asked Mrs. Thorpe quietly, but with a smile lurking in her eyes.

"Certainly!" answered the father.

"Suppose then, that one of your flock—a simple unlearned woman like myself—should be thrown in with a very learned and eloquent Protestant clergyman, who should strive to draw her into an argument—what would you advise her to do?"

The good priest smiled in spite of himself.

"But suppose I had the best of the argument, would not that convince you?" he asked.

"It would convince me that your Reverence was much more skillful in argument than myself," was the answer; "and I am quite ready to admit that, now."

"But since you do admit that I am more learned than yourself, ought not that to make my arguments of weight to you?"

"Well! I do not know about that. I suppose, your Reverence, that the poor people who thronged to hear St. Peter and St. John, were not nearly so learned as Gamaliel, and the other Pharisees; but they were not greatly influenced by them after all."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such respectful frankness, that it was impossible to be offended with her. The priest glanced at us girls, who with eyes demurely cast down, were listening with all our ears, shrugged his shoulders, offered his snuff-box, and gave the matter up. I often thought of this little scene afterwards, when the relations came to be so changed between these two good people. But all this is by the way, and I have wandered far from the thread of my story, which I fear is but a tangle skein at the best.

Amabel and I were sitting, as I said, with a frame between us, finishing a wonderful bit of needle lace, an article for which our house was famous. It was Saturday, and on Monday we were to leave the old house which had been our home so long. We were very silent and sewed with great diligence, for we were desirous of finishing our work, which was destined for some church adornment—I forget what.

Presently Sister Angela appeared at the door and mysteriously beckoned to us.

"What does she want?" said I, pettishly enough. "We shall have no more than enough daylight to finish our work, and we never can do it by lamplight."

However, it was my business to obey, and I followed Amabel who had already risen. Sister Angela led us into a disused storeroom and closed the door.

"Are you really going away with that heretic woman, and to that dreadful England?" she asked of Amabel in a whisper.

"I suppose so," said Amabel. "My father has sent for us, and we have no choice."

"But is your father a Catholic?" asked the sister. "Are you sure?"

"I suppose so. Why?"

"Well, I do not believe he is—not a good one. Madame Thorpe herself told Sister Agnes that he sometimes went to the English Church."

"Perhaps he has a dispensation," said I.

"Well, at all events these ladies to whom you are going are heretics. There is no doubt of that."

"I suppose not," said Amabel, "but they may not interfere with our religion."

"They will. They cannot help it. They will try in every way to pervert you. Besides, you will be deprived of the sacraments—you will be perverted and lose your souls. Oh, my children, don't go."

"But we must," said Amabel.

"You need not, if you will listen. Suppose you declare to take the veil and remain here. This woman has no force wherewith to take you away, and she will have to go without you. Then if your father should send again, you could be hidden in some place about the building, or sent away to some other house where he would never find you."

I looked at Amabel in decided alarm, thinking that if she staid I must stay too, and not disposed to lose the prospect of change, which was growing more and more attractive every day.

"But would that be right?" asked Amabel. "I think I ought to obey my father."

"Not if he is a heretic," said Sister Angela.

"You don't know certainly that he is," said I.

"And, besides, how many nuns have taken the veil against the wishes of their nearest and dearest friends," added Sister Angela triumphantly. "Think how St. Agnes left her father's house and ran away to St. Francis in the middle of the night. Think of the blessed Mother de Chantal, the friend of St. Francis de Sales—how she left her children—and, though her eldest son threw himself prostrate on the door-sill, beseeching his mother with tears and cries, she stepped over his body and went her way as calmly as if nothing had happened."

There must have been some influence emanating from Mrs. Thorpe after all, for though I had been brought up to think the Mother de Chantal a model of all excellence, I began to conceive a disgust for her directly—I can't say that I have ever got over it.

Amabel did not say a word while Sister Angela went on urging the example of one saint after another, till she was stopped by sheer want of breath.

Then Amabel asked—

"Does Mother Superior know of this plan?"

"No, I have not mentioned it to her," answered Sister Angela, taken rather aback. "I thought I would see how you took it first."

"Then, if you please, we will say no more about it," said Amabel, "at least not till you have consulted her. I will consider the matter and then I shall know how to act. Come, Lucy, we must finish our task before dark."

We sat down to our frame and worked for an hour without saying a word. Then I looked up and, catching Amabel's eye, I saw in a moment that her mind was made up.

"Well!" said I.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Amabel, answering my unspoken question. "Did not Mother Superior say that it was our duty to obey Sir Julius?"

"Yes, I know she did."

"Sister Angela had no right either to propose such a thing unknown to Mother Prudentia—Mother Superior, I mean," pursued Amabel. "She and some of the others think they can take liberties now. They may find themselves mistaken."

"But would you wish to stay?" I asked. "For my part, I confess, I want to know what the world is like."

"Mother Superior would have said that was like wishing to eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil," returned Amabel, smiling gravely. "No, I don't think I want to stay now. I wish to see my father, and my little brother, and step-mother. Besides, the Bible itself says 'Children obey your parents.' Don't you know we read that in Father Brousseau's big book?"

"But if the Church teaches, and of course it must or Mother de Chantal and St. Agnes would not have done it," I began, but Amabel interrupted me.

"I don't like to look two ways at once, it only puzzles me. There, our work is finished—the last we shall do in this house. Does it not seem strange? Come, let us carry it to Mother Sacristine, and then I want to speak to Mrs. Thorpe."

Mother Sacristine praised our work to the skies, and lamented, as much as Sister Agnes had done, over our going away.

"If you were only of age—but when you are, you can come back, you know. I don't believe but it might be managed now. There are plenty of hiding places where no one would ever find you."

We glanced at each other, but said nothing, and betook ourselves to look for Mrs. Thorpe.

"They are all in it!" said Amabel.

"I see they are," returned I. "It frightens me. What if they should keep us here?"

"There is no use in being frightened," said Amabel, composed as usual. "Wait and see. I have a strong feeling that Mother Superior will not approve; and if she does not, I would not be in their shoes."

We found Mrs. Thorpe in her little cell, busily writing something in her pocketbook.

"Mrs. Thorpe, is my father a Catholic?" asked Amabel, going to the point, as usual.

"My dear, that is more than I can tell you," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "His father and mother were so, and he was brought up in that way. My own impression is that he is not much of anything."

"You do not mean that he has no religion at all!" said Amabel, startled.

"If he hasn't, he is not the only one,—more's the pity say I," answered the good woman. "But in England just now, as I understand is the case here, a great many fine gentlemen profess infidelity just as they carry clouded canes and tortoise-shell snuff-boxes. But your aunts, your mother's sisters, are very religious ladies, in their way, and keep their church regularly—so my sister-in-law tells me, who lives in the same parish."

"Shall we have to go to church with them?" I asked.

"My dear Mrs. Corbet, if I were you, I would leave that to settle itself," replied Mrs. Thorpe. "You cannot tell just how you may find things, and there is no use in borrowing trouble. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

"That is what I always tell Lucy," said Amabel, "but she picks out her knots a dozen times before she comes to them, or they are made at all. But what a nice proverb that is you repeated. Please say it again."

"Proverb, child! Why, 'tis in the Gospel. Our Lord himself said it. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Lay it to heart, my dears. It will save you a great deal of trouble."

I never knew how or when Sister Angela propounded her notable plan to Mother Superior, but I can make a good guess that it was that very afternoon. For she appeared at the table with very red cheeks and all the sisters were so very meek and silent, that I fancy they had got what Mrs. Thorpe would have called a wigging at "obedience." Mother Superior never mentioned the matter to us, and of course we never said anything to her. Not but she might have considered all fair in the cause of the church, and the saving of souls, but I think she naturally revolted at anything underhanded, and, besides, our community had too recently emerged from a heavy cloud of disgrace and danger to run any such risk as would have been incurred by the spiriting away of two English girls of good family at that time.

Sunday passed as rapidly as last days always do. On Monday the carriage bespoken by Mrs. Thorpe came to the door. We bade a tearful farewell to our old friends and home, and parted from them forever.

And in this place, I may as well say what I think about convent life. I am far from believing all the scandalous tales that are told, though one may learn from the writings of Roman Catholic authors, as well as from the history of Mother Angelique herself, what disorders have sometimes existed in them. But I do say the whole system is an unnatural and, therefore, an unhealthy one, and it is liable to great abuses.

Here is one of them: A young girl just leaving school, knowing nothing of the world—especially if she be a French girl—is invited to make a retreat. What does that mean? It means confinement—voluntary, no doubt, in most cases, but still confinement—in a darkened room, with just light enough to see to read. It means absence of all ordinary occupation, shortened hours of rest, and long fasts. Some book like the "Meditations of St. Ignatius" is put into her hands, full of the grossest and most terrible material images of death and hell. They talk about the ranting of the Methodists, and I won't deny that the local preachers and exhorters go too far in this direction at times, but I never met with one who would dare to say as much as this famous saint, or as some Catechisms do. The decay of the body after death, with all attendant horrors, real or imaginary, is a favorite theme. "You will become that for which there is no name in any language!" says St. Ignatius. * Then come pictures of purgatory and hell, wrought up to the highest pitch, and then—the poor, tired, hysterical young creature is invited to pause and seriously consider her vocation in life. Is it any wonder that she decides for that vocation which is set before her as the one of certain safety? Is it any wonder either that the excitement over, she should too often find that she has made a horrible mistake?

* Bossuet has the same phrase. I don't know who stole it.

I think the peculiar circumstances under which we were placed had their effect in elevating the characters of our sisters; and yet, looking back, I can see what a petty world we lived in—a world, too, which had its envies and jealousies even as the great one. Whoever goes into a convent carries his flesh with him. No walls have ever been contrived to shut out the devil, and where these two are, be sure the third partner—the world—is not far away.

The Lord surely knew what He was about when he set people in families, and created the dear ties of husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister. Our Lord Himself lived not in a convent—as He might have done it seems, for Mr. Wesley has told me there were convents, or at least brotherhoods, in those days—but in a family, and a working family at that. One of the very few pictures of Him I ever saw that I liked, is a little print Mother Superior gave me long ago, and which I have still, representing the young Jesus holding a skein of yarn for His mother, just as Judith Postlethwate often does for me.

There are some good things to be said for convent schools, as I have remarked before. They take good care, so far as I have observed, of their pupils' health; they teach them to be neat, tidy, and punctual—all of which are very good things. I am sure of one thing: I would not send a child to a smallpox hospital unless I wished it to catch the smallpox, and I would not send a girl to a convent school if I had any objection to her taking the veil.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

FLIGHT FROM THE NEST.

I SHALL never forget my sensations when I felt myself fairly outside the convent walls. Though I had lived in France sixteen years and more, I had never seen more of it than was visible from the window of the little room over the porch—the only one to which we had access which opened on the outside world. How different the building looked from the outside. I had never even known of the existence of the two round towers at the outer corners, since only their pinnacles were visible from the court, and these I had always supposed to be on the roof itself.

"Why, Amabel, did you know those towers were there?" I exclaimed.

"No," answered Amabel; "and what is that little building that joins on the church?"

"Perhaps it is the cell in which Sister Marie des Anges lived so many years. Don't you remember mother assistant telling us the story?"

"Who was she?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, glad to see us a little diverted from our grief.

"She was a very holy lady who once belonged to our house a great while ago—a hundred years, I dare say," replied Amabel. "She lost her mother when she was about sixteen, and she had a great vocation. Her father, who had several younger children, would not consent to her entering a convent, thinking she ought to take care of her little brothers and sisters. So she shut herself up in a room at home, and would not eat with the family, or see any of them if she could help it, and she slept on the floor and wore sackcloth. At last her father died, and she could do as she pleased; so she built a little cell opening from the church, and caused herself to be bricked up in it with but one window, opening to the church, and there she lived—never coming out, or washing her face, or changing her clothes, till they were all worn-out."

"She must have been a pleasant neighbor!" interrupted Mrs. Thorpe. "I should have liked a seat on the other side of the church myself. In England, we think cleanliness is next to godliness. But how did this pious lady spend her time?"

"In prayer, mostly," answered Amabel; "but she used to work beautiful lace and sell it for the benefit of the house." *

* I beg pardon of the Canadians for transplanting to another time and place this paragon, who really belongs to them. Her biographer remarks that she was exercised with a perpetual aridity of spirit. No wonder!

"I should not like to be the one to wear it," responded Mrs. Thorpe, who did not seem to admire this saintly personage at all. "You have told the story very nicely, my dear. Shall I tell you a tale of one of my saints?"

"Oh! Do, if you please!" said both together, and Amabel added: "I did not know Protestants had saints."

"Oh, yes, we have them, but they are rather different. Well, this young maid, like yours, was bereft of her mother when she was seventeen, and she had four little brothers and sisters. Her father was a clergyman—you know Protestant clergy marry—and very poor.

"This young lady had been taught by her mother, who was a well-educated lady. She had most of the care of the family, for her father had a large parish, and very little means, so that he was obliged to till a piece of land to help out the living.

"So my young maid—her name was Mary, too—heard her brother's Latin accidence, and so on till he was ready to go to a foundation school, where he got an Oxford scholarship, and was made a professor or master, I don't know just what they call it. Another brother got a berth on a good ship, and now commands a fine vessel of his own.

"Of her two sisters, one keeps a girls' school at Gateshead, where she has brought up many fine girls to be blessings to their families. The other married a sailor, who, after many prosperous voyages was cast away in sight of his own home; and now she keeps a shop, where all the fine ladies about come to buy laces, gloves, and sweet waters, and oftentimes to learn embroidery stitches and the like.

"My saint herself lived to lay her honored father's head in the grave, and to see every one of his children doing well in all ways, and then she went home to her well-earned rest. Yes, indeed, my Mary, my more than mother!—Thou dost rest from thy labors, and thy works do follow thee!"

"That is my saint, girls," said Mrs. Thorpe, after a little pause. "How do you like her?"

"I think she was lovely!" said Amabel, with enthusiasm. "And all the better because she did not choose her own work. It was just as if God himself set her a task, was it not?"

"Yes, my dear Mrs. Amabel, God sets us all tasks, if we would but see them."

"And was this lady your sister?" I asked.

"Yes, my dear, my oldest sister; and if I ever have done any good in this world, it is owing to her. I will show you her picture at home. A traveling artist drew it for us. But it was odd you should never have known of this cell," said Mrs. Thorpe, returning to Amabel's tale. "Does it not open to the church now?"

"No; I believe she was built up in it after she died. But there are a great many places about our house that we never saw."

"That is what I don't like—I mean all that mystery!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I like things to be open and above board. Not that I mean to say one word about the ladies in the house we have left, who have been most kind, I am sure. I am only thinking what chances all this concealment gives to wicked or tyrannical persons. Suppose a nun misbehaves, or is thought to do so. She disappears, and word goes that she is sick. By and by it is said that she is dead. But who knows what has become of her?"

"But such things would never happen in a religious house," said I, half offended.

"My dear, human nature is a poor creature, as my dear father used to say, when he could find no other excuse for somebody. It is not fit to be trusted with arbitrary power."

"The Jesuits and the archbishop of Paris were religious persons when they persecuted Mother Angelique and the other people at Port Royal," said Amabel, who had heard that great lady's story many a time from Mother Perpetua; "but I am sure, Mrs. Thorpe, no one was ever persecuted in our house."

"I dare say not, my dear; I was only speaking of what might be."

This discussion had thoroughly diverted us, and made us forget to turn back for that last look we had promised ourselves. It was just as well, for such last looks are of no particular use.

We now began to see so many wonders, and these wonders increased upon us so fast as we drew near the city that we were silent from very amazement, and could only use our eyes. The crowded ways and marketplaces, the shops, the soldiers marching through the streets, the universal bustle of a seaport town—were enough to surprise and bewilder any country-bred person, much more two little cage-birds like ourselves, who had never in all our lives seen a dozen strange faces.

By the time we reached the lodging which the care of Captain Lowther had provided for us, we were thoroughly tired out, and ready to eat our supper and go to bed earlier even than we were used to do. We had both one chamber, with two little white and pink beds furnished with canopies. There was also a full-length mirror in our room, and various other luxuries. I dare say the place would look dingy enough to us now, but at that time it was quite a fairy palace.

"What a soft bed!" said I, as I lay down. "I don't know what Mother Prudentia would say to it."

"She would say we must not talk in bed, I suppose," replied Amabel. "What are they all doing at our old home?"

"They are at service in the church," said I, as a clock on the mantel-piece struck seven. "Does it not seem strange that we may sit up till nine o'clock if we choose."

"I could not I am sure, I am too sleepy," answered Amabel. "It seems as though I had lived a hundred years since morning. Good-night, Lucy."

The novelty of my position and the strange and to me alarming sounds in the street kept me awake for two hours—a very long time to lie awake at seventeen. I thought over all my past life, and wondered what the future would be like. I wasted a good deal of conjecture upon my probably position at Highbeck Hall—such was the name of the place where Amabel's aunt lived. I thought of the story of Mary Lowther which we had heard in the morning, and wondered—rather scared at myself for doing so—whether Protestants were after all such bad people, and whether bringing up motherless children, or even children of one's own, was not as high a vocation as building oneself up in a hole in the wall, and living in rags and dirt for twenty years.

Finally I wondered myself to sleep, and did not wake till Mrs. Thorpe called me in the morning. What a wonderful thing it was to have a mirror to dress by. I was positively bewildered by it at first, and found I could manage better in the old way.

We saw very little of Toulon. There was some disturbance in the town, owing, I believe, to the escape of some galley slaves, which made it unpleasant to be in the streets. I know there was a great marching to and fro of soldiers, and once or twice the firing of guns.

We went out once, however, under the escort of Captain Lowther, to buy some new clothes, and see some sights. We had new frocks alike of dark silk, which were quite superb in our eyes, and thick grey woolen frocks, and warm cloaks, which Mrs. Thorpe said we should need on the voyage, since it was always cold at sea.

On our return from this expedition, a great surprise befell us. We found Father Brousseau waiting for us, and learned that he was to go to England in the same ship with us. He informed us that a relative in the north of England had left him a small property, and beside that, he wished to visit the noble family where he had once been confessor, and perhaps he might remain with them.

He has since told me that his superiors that it as well for him to leave France for a time, since he had drawn upon himself the enmity of a noble and powerful family, who would have no scruple in revenging themselves even on a priest. It was known or guessed that he had been the means of discovering that plot for sacking the convent which had so nearly succeeded, and his life, it was said, had already been threatened by some of the Count de Crequi's family.

Those were terribly lawless times in France. The country was full of soldiers disbanded or deserted after the peace, ready to beg, rob, or murder, as might suit their purpose best, and prepared for any desperate undertaking which promised plunder. The great nobles oppressed their tenants and their weaker neighbors with impunity, and revelled in all sorts of luxury, while the same tenants ate boiled grass and nettles, or died of starvation at their gates. They say people are making an effort now to set things straight, but from all I hear, not much good is likely to come of it. Folks who have been crushed down to the level of brute beasts are pretty likely to act like wild beasts when once they get loose.

We sailed from Toulon in the first days of August, and arrived in Newcastle in about ten or twelve days. We had a stormy passage, and Amabel and I were very sick a great deal of the time, so that Mrs. Thorpe had her hands full with waiting on us. Father Brousseau was not much better than we, but he made a heroic effort to crawl upon deck every day that the captain would allow him to be there, and, so Mrs. Thorpe averred, gave wonderfully little trouble for a man.

How thankful we were to be once more upon dry land; even though that land was none of the most attractive. Everyone knows that Newcastle is the very centre of the great coal trade of the North. It seemed to us, as we landed on the wharf, and toiled up the narrow steep street to that part of the town where Mrs. Thorpe lived, that everything was begrimed with coal-dust. The very faces of the babies were darkened with it, and we seemed to breathe it in the air. The streets were narrow and the dingy houses were old and tumble-down—and seemed to hum with people, like a hive. I suppose Mrs. Thorpe read some dismay in our looks, for she said kindly—

"This is but a poor part of the town, young ladies; you will come to a better presently."

And in effect, we did come out on a wider and more quiet street, where there were a few handsome old houses, and several shops of the better sort, at the doors of which handsome equipages—carriages, or Sedan chairs, were standing. It was to one of the neatest of these houses, that Mrs. Thorpe directed our steps. I noticed at once, that the good-sized windows were clear and bright, the pavement in front well cleaned, and the two stone steps which led down into the shop were as white as hands could make them.

"Welcome to my poor house, young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, turning to us as we entered. "I hope I shall be able to make you comfortable, though I am not much used to entertaining ladies of quality. Well, Rebecca, and how do you do?"

"Right well, Clarissa, and glad to see thee back!" said a prim little old lady, who rose from her seat behind the counter, and welcomed Mrs. Thorpe with a joy which was more forcibly expressed in her beautiful grey eyes, than in her words.

We looked at her in some surprise; taking her in her grey dress, white kerchief and close cap, for a sister of some religious order.

"These are the two young ladies whom my brother has brought over from France," said Mrs. Thorpe, after she had shaken hands with her friend. "This is Mrs. Amabel Leighton, and this is Mrs. Lucy Corbet, her companion and kinswoman."

The good woman made some kind of salutation, and then began asking questions of Mrs. Thorpe, about her voyage, and answering others in her turn; while we stood patiently, almost forgetting our fatigue in observing the strange new place in which we found ourselves.

The shop was a large one for the place and time. It was exquisitely neat, and crammed full of goods—laces, ribbons, fans, china jars, and monsters of all kinds, and the air was quite heavy with the perfume of scented soaps, hair powder, and essences.

"But there, my dears, I won't keep you here, when I know you are tired to death. Come up stairs directly. Where is Betsy? How do you do, my lass?" As a stout neat looking servant-maid came in, wiping her hands and greeting her mistress in some language, which no doubt was intended for English, but which her Northumbrian burr, made absolutely unintelligible to me. "I suppose the young ladies' rooms are ready, Betsy!"

Betsy signified as much, and Mrs. Thorpe led the way up stairs, and herself introduced us to a little parlor very neatly and prettily furnished, decorated with some beautiful china, and with a great bow pot of flowers standing in the window. There were snow-white curtains to the deep windows, and a Turkey rug, old and faded, but still beautiful, on the centre of the floor. The furniture was heavy and black with age, but bright as rubbing could make it; and what most attracted my attention at the moment, a tall press full of books occupied a recess on one side of the fireplace.

From this pretty parlor opened two light closets, each of which held a little bed, a chair, and a dressing-table, with a small round mirror hung over it. The sitting-room window looked out on a small, but neatly kept garden, and through an opening between two great trees at the bottom, we could see the tower of a grand old church.

"This will be your room, my dears—young ladies, I should say—as long as you remain with me," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I bade Betsy get it ready, thinking you would like the view into the garden."

"It is a beautiful room!" said Amabel. "Dear Mrs. Thorpe, how kind you are to us. But you must not let us take up the best part of your house."

"Oh! I have plenty of room, never fear," answered Mrs. Thorpe smiling. "The house is a large one. I used to take lodgers, but I don't do it any more. My shop gives me enough to look to, and I have been wonderfully prospered and cared for. These books and most of the furniture of this room, belonged to my honored father; and were placed here for my sister Mary—the one I told you of—when she came to make her home with me. See! Here are your mails—and I dare say you will like to wash, and change your clothes. It is always the first thing I want to do when I come off the ship."

A stout serving-man, who looked as if he had never been hungry in his life, brought up our little trunks. Betsy, who had left the room for a minute, followed him with a great can of hot water, and a heap of clean towels; and Mrs. Thorpe left us to our toilets.

Mine was soon made, and as the window was open, I ventured to satisfy my curiosity, by leaning out. I made the discovery that our next door neighbors were very quiet ones. The house stood near a small grey-stone church, standing in a church-yard thickly sown with stones, and unmarked graves. On the other side, our garden was bounded by a high wall on which was trained a vine of some sort; over this, I could just see a bit of what looked like a grand mansion of brick and stone. I announced my discovery to Amabel, who came to look in her turn.

"Yes, it all seems quiet and nice," said she, "and the room is very pretty. I did not think there could be such a pretty place in this ugly town."

"It is dreadfully ugly, at least all we have seen of it," I admitted. "Perhaps it is not all so. You know Mrs. Thorpe said we came through a poor part of it. See what a pretty house that is beyond the church-yard, where the gentleman is just coming out. There, he is coming to the church. I wonder if he can be the priest."

"He does not look like one, though I am sure I don't know what an English priest does look like. But, Lucy, what would Mother Prudentia say to our staring out of window at a strange man?"

I drew back quickly enough, feeling, I don't know why, rather vexed at Amabel's words.

The gentleman in question was a tall, stout young man of thirty, or thereabouts, not at all handsome, but with something very attractive in his face. He was twirling a thick stick, and whistling to a rough little dog, which ran to and fro among the monuments.

Somehow I took a liking to that gentleman the moment I saw him. There was a kind of real manliness about him which made one feel that he was a person to be relied upon in case of danger or distress. I took another peep and saw that he was pulling up some weeds from a baby's grave.

"Well, my dears—I must learn to say young ladies, I suppose, now you are at home in England," said Mrs. Thorpe, knocking and entering at the same moment. "But, laws me, it does come so easy to me to mother all young girls for the sake of my own two—I suppose you are quite ready for your suppers. Will you join us at the table, or shall I send you something up here?"

"Oh, we will go to the table," answered Amabel; "and, dear Mrs. Thorpe, I am sure we shall be only too glad to be mothered, as you say. We are all ready, if you please."

"Please, Mrs. Thorpe, who is that lady below in the shop?" I ventured to ask as we descended the stairs. "Is she a sister?"

"No, she is not a sister, but a Friend," answered Mrs. Thorpe, smiling. "She is what people call a Quaker. Have you none in France?"

"I do not know," replied Amabel; "we know not much more about France than England."

"Ah! Yes, that is true. Well, the Friends are a people by themselves, and have their own ways and notions—very odd ones, too, some of them are. They never go to church, and have no sacraments, and no settled order of clergy, but they hold by the Bible, and are very good, honest kind of people. Some of their women, even, are ministers, like Rebecca Carter's sister. Rebecca is a good creature, and very faithful to me, but she has her ways, as who has not? You must not mind if she calls you by your plain, Christian names. That is a part of her religion."

At another time, I suppose all this would have surprised me very much, but the last two or three weeks had been so full of wonders that I was beginning to lose the power of being surprised at anything.

We followed Mrs. Thorpe into a kind of back-parlor, or better-most kitchen, I don't know just which to call it, where the table was set for several persons. Mrs. Thorpe placed Amabel and myself on either side of her, at the head of the table. She then rang a little hand bell, and two or three neat looking young women came in from another room, and took their places near the foot of the board. Mrs. Thorpe said grace, and Amabel and I crossed ourselves, as we had always been used to do. I saw one of the girls glance at another and smile contemptuously. Unluckily, Mrs. Thorpe saw it too.

"Betty Humble will leave the table," said she.

Betty colored furiously, and began to stammer some excuse, but Mrs. Thorpe made an imperative gesture, which sent Betty out of the room, bursting into tears as she shut the door behind her with more force than was quite needful. I felt sorry for the girl, though I had felt my cheeks burn the moment before, and I glanced at Amabel, rather hoping she would intercede for the banished Betty; but she said not a word, nor did anything in her face show that she was at all disturbed.

The supper was brought in by Betsy, the stout servant-maid, who waited at table more skillfully than I would have expected from her appearance. The meal was abundant, and nicely cooked, and, as it was the first meal I ever ate in England, I remember it well. We had a fine pair of roasted fowls, boiled potatoes, light as meal (the very first, by the way, that I had ever seen, for they have never been very commonly used in France, and at that time were not known in our parts). Also, we had a great bowl of frumenty, or wheat boiled with milk, and a mountain of a brown loaf.

I thought of our dear mothers and sisters in France, sitting down to their meal of coarse bread and milk, and not too much of that, and it gave me almost a guilty feeling. It seemed as if I had no right to the savory wing of fowl that Mrs. Thorpe put upon my plate, and the tears rose to my eyes in spite of me. Mrs. Thorpe noticed the change in my countenance, as, indeed, she always saw everything.

"What is it, my dear? Anything wrong?"

"No, madame," I answered, making a great effort to compose myself. And then, feeling that I owed her an explanation, I added in French, and in a low tone:

"I was thinking of the mothers and sisters at St. Jean, and wishing they had my supper."

"Bless your kind heart, Mrs. Lucy, I wish they had!" answered the good woman. "I am sure they should be heartily welcome to the best my house could afford, if they were only here, or I could send it to them. But do not let the thought spoil your supper, my dear. If those who give to the poor lend to the Lord, the good ladies have a fine estate out at interest into which they will come some day. Anne Thwaites, don't let me see you bend over to your meat in that way—you will be growing as crooked as a rams-horn before you are forty."

Anne, a delicate looking girl, pulled herself up, blushing and smiling at the same time. So the meal proceeded with a little conversation, and now and then a remark addressed to the apprentice lasses, for so I found them to be.

After all was cleared away, the servants—Betsy, the man who had brought up our trunks, and an elderly woman, whom Mrs. Thorpe addressed as Mrs. Crump, came in and took their seats. A large Bible and prayer-book were laid before Mrs. Thorpe; she read a chapter, and then a prayer in a reverent devout manner, all joining in the Lord's prayer at the end. If she had asked us to be present, I suppose we should have refused; but either because she thought it the more discreet way, or from sheer forgetfulness, she never said a word about it, but took our attendance for granted.

The chapter was the beautiful story of the Shunamite, and that was the first word I ever heard out of the Old Testament, except indeed the Psalms, most of which I knew by heart. I observed that Rebecca Carter did not come in to family prayers, but remained in the shop, where also she had her supper. I concluded that this was one of the "ways" that Mrs. Thorpe had told us of.

It was August, and the days were growing shorter, but the evening was warm and dry, and Mrs. Thorpe invited us to go out into her garden.

"It is but a small place compared to that you have been used to!" said she. "But yet it is not so bad for a town garden, and the church-yard being next, gives us plenty of fresh air."

"I think it is a lovely garden!" said Amabel with great enthusiasm, and indeed it was.

Every nook and corner was improved to some good purpose, either filled with such hardy flowers as flourished so far north, or with sweet herbs or berry bushes. The sunny wall had an apricot trained upon it, and there were two grand standard pear trees, and a low bushy apple tree, all three laden with fruit. There was also a pretty arbor, covered with a great Virginia vine, just beginning to turn red.

"My husband brought that vine from over-seas in America, himself," observed Mrs. Thorpe, "as well as that tree you see yonder, in the church-yard; the tree has beautiful flowers upon it. My sister's grave, and that of our two daughters are just under it."

"Were your daughters grown up, madame?" I ventured to ask.

"They were just about your age. They were both taken in one week's time of a fever, which was in the town."

"That was very sad!" said I.

"Yes, my dear, very sad. I hardly knew how to bear it at first, and I do not know but I should have sunk under the blow, only that many of our neighbors were ill, and needed my help. Would you believe it, my dears? In that very house next door, the mother was taken down, and her own sons and daughters would not go near her, but left her wholly to the care of a wretch, who drank the wine given for her patient, and then ran away and left her. I went in to see her, and by good hap, was in time to save her from sinking at the crisis of the fever."

"'My good Mrs. Thorpe, it is very kind of you to look after Mama!' said one of the daughters, in her fine lady lisp and drawl; 'but I suppose it is natural to you to like to take care of the sick.'"

"'Madam!' says I. 'I hope it will never be natural to me to desert those who need my help, whether they be strangers, or my own flesh and blood,' says I."

"Oh! I gave them a bit of my mind, I promise you; they were greatly offended and would not come into my shop for a long time; but I let them alone and they got over it."

"Do they live there now?" I asked, much interested.

"Oh, no! They are all gone. One daughter married, and died of the smallpox. The other wedded a fine London gentleman, who soon gambled away all her property, and left her in great poverty and distress, poor thing. She lives in a little cottage over in Gateshead, on what she can make from the rent of this house; which is not much, for it is in bad repair, yet a fine old mansion too, and I will show you over it some day. See! Here are some monthly roses—a bud for each of you."

"Have you not a bud for me also?" asked a cheery voice, from over the stone wall next the church-yard.

We all turned round, and there stood the tall gentleman we had seen before. He was leaning on the wall, and lifted his hat politely.

"Ah! Mr. Cheriton, I did not know your Reverence was in town!" answered Mrs. Thorpe, curtsying low. "I fear there are no more rose-buds, but here is a clove pink if you will have it."

"And when did you come home from foreign parts?" asked Mr. Cheriton, accepting the pink with a bow, and putting it in his button-hole.

"Only to-day, your Reverence. This is Mrs. Amabel Leighton, and her kinswoman, Mrs. Lucy Corbet, who have come home, and are staying with me, till they can go to their aunts at Highbeck house."

"That is not likely to be very soon, I fear, unless both of these young ladies have had smallpox!" said Mr. Cheriton. "I have just come home from my father's, and went over to pay my respects to the old ladies, who made me the bearer of dispatches to yourself."

Mr. Cheriton bowed to us severally as he spoke, and then produced a letter bound with a bit of floss silk, which he gave to Mrs. Thorpe. Then bowing again, and whistling to his dog, he departed. Mrs. Thorpe led us into her own parlor behind the shop, where we waited in some anxiety, while she read the note the gentleman had handed her.

"Here is a change of affairs with a witness!" said she, when she had succeeded in making out its contents. "My dear young ladies, can you content yourselves to live with me for a few weeks? Your aunt writes that they have two cases of smallpox in the house, and that they are every day expecting Mrs. Chloe, the youngest lady, to come down with the same, and that she would prefer to have you remain with me till the danger is over. I think you told me you had never had the smallpox."

"Not unless we were very young at the time," we told her.

"Ah, then we will run no risks. But can you content yourselves with living quietly in my plain way for a little, or would you rather go to my sister's school, where you can have companions of your own age?"

We assured her that we would rather stay with her than go anywhere else, and, indeed, I think we both felt it to be a reprieve. We had grown to love Mrs. Thorpe, and to feel confidence in her, and the notion of strange companions of our own age was rather alarming than attractive. So the matter was settled. We would make it our home for the present, with good Mrs. Thorpe, who would on the morrow send word to that effect to our aunts at Highbeck Hall.

"Amabel," said I, when we were once more alone in our own pretty room, "do you think we did wrong to be present at Protestant worship? Ought we to have come away?"

"No, I don't think so," answered Amabel, after a little consideration. "We could not help it, and there was nothing contrary to religion in the prayers."

"But there was no Hail Mary! Or any other devotion to the mother of God."

"That is true. I believe Protestants do not honor her as we do. But, Lucy, you know how we used to read the 'Imitation of Christ' over and over. Mother Superior always had it by her when she was ill, and there is not a word in that about the mother of God, any more than in Mrs. Thorpe's prayer."

"That is true enough; I never thought of it before," I answered. Then—changing the subject—"Are you glad, or sorry, that we are not to go to Highbeck Hall directly?"

"Glad, on the whole," answered Amabel. "It will give us a little time to rest, and get used to English ways. Come, let us say our prayers, and get ready for night. Those little white beds look so nice after the berths on board ship."

They did, indeed, but I had one question more.

"Amabel, what do you think of Mr. Cheriton?"

"I don't think of him at all;—why should I?" answered Amabel, a little shortly. "Come, let us go to bed."

And so ended our first day in England; but I think Amabel did think a little bit about the tall young rector after all.

[CHAPTER IX.]

LADY THROCKMORTON.

THE next day Father Brousseau came to see us. We had been so hurried and flurried at the time of our landing the day before, that we had hardly exchanged a dozen words, and now he came to bid us farewell before going to his friends in the country.

They had sent some one to meet him—a gentleman-in-waiting of some kind, and a very solemn and dignified person indeed, who accompanied him to our house. He had furnished the good priest with a suit of raiment, such as is worn by ordinary English clergymen, not wishing, I suppose, to have him attract notice as a foreigner.

There were at the time considerable disturbances in the country. A French war was impending, and an apprehended rising of the Jacobites, or adherents to the house of Stuart, which really took place the next year, had awakened the "no popery" feeling, always prevailing more or less in the lower and middle classes. I must say he had not succeeded very well in disguising him, for Father Brousseau looked, if possible, more priestly than ever.

He was to leave town that very day, and it was easy to see that the serving-man was anxious to get him away. Indeed, he made his impatience so manifest, that our leave-taking was rather a hurried one. The father gave us some advice as to our conduct, enjoined it upon us to read no heretical books, and attend no heretical services, to say our prayers and keep at home, and to be guided by Mrs. Thorpe in all things not belonging to our religion. He gave us each a little picture, and his blessing, and bade us farewell. I did not see him for many a year afterward, when times were greatly changed for both of us.

It must be confessed that for a few days, we lived rather an idle and unprofitable life at Mrs. Thorpe's. The good woman herself was naturally very busy after her long absence, and she left us much to ourselves. We had never been used to the ordering of our own time any more since we were grown up, than when we were three years old.

In the convent every hour brought its own occupation, in the same regular routine, day after day, and year after year, and we never thought of anything else. We had never been trained to think or decide for ourselves in the smallest matter. "A good religious has no will of her own, and no more thinks of guiding herself than does the needle she sews with," was a favorite saying of Mother Superior's, and we had been brought up on the same principle. A man who has never learned to walk alone, will, if left to himself, stumble just as much at fifty as at three, and will probably hurt himself a good deal more. It is therefore no wonder that being, as it were, thus suddenly put on our own feet, and bade to go, we did not know very well how to set about it.

Mrs. Thorpe, as I have said, had provided us with a parlor of our own, but we liked better to sit in her room which opened from the shop, and watch the many customers—the fine ladies who came for essences, laces, and fans, and the hundred and one nothings in which Mrs. Thorpe dealt—to cheapen china jars and dragons, and go into ecstasies over tiny tea-cups and French painted fans—and the still finer gentlemen who came to see the fine ladies, look over the last novel—for Mrs. Thorpe added that of a circulating library to her other business—and discuss the latest bit of news and scandal.

Mrs. Thorpe usually found or made time to take a walk with us every day, and when she could not go herself, she sent Mrs. Crump, her housekeeper, a most respectable woman, whom we particularly liked, because she had come from Cornwall, and could tell about the place where our mothers had grown up.

In the house I am afraid, we dawdled sadly. We found ourselves for the first time among books. Mrs. Thorpe, as I have said, kept a circulating library, but she by no means made us free of its contents. However, she picked out for us Mr. Thomson's Poems and Dr. Young's, and the then new romance of "Sir Charles Grandison" in its seven closely-printed little volumes, (the good Richardson had made fourteen in the first place) and allowed us to amuse ourselves with these. *

* This is an anachronism. "Sir Charles Grandison" was published in 1751.

To say that we read these books was nothing. We devoured them, read them aloud to each other, and talked about them from morning till night. Books of any sort other than "Lives of the Saints" and "Meditations" were such a wonder to us that it is not strange our heads were a little turned with them. I think Amabel and I had our first difference of opinion over the amiable Clementine, whom she admired for her wonderful spirit of self-sacrifice and piety, and whom I thought a sentimental little fool—(I have never changed my mind)—and she was downright vexed with me, when I laughed outright at the pathetic image of Sir Charles and Clementine on their knees to each other, and the faithful Camilla presenting a smelling-bottle alternately to each of their noses. We were actually rather cool to each other for a whole day, but made up our quarrel at night over Mr. Thomson's description of a thunder shower.

I have said that Mrs. Thorpe's shop was a resort for all the fine folks in town. It was not long before we began to be observed as we sat in the back-parlor, which was divided from the shop by a screen. In this parlor were kept some special boxes of lace too precious to be trusted to the outer shop, and hither also came the fine ladies to try on the "heads," ruffs, and so on, which they were minded to purchase.

At this distance of time, I may say without vanity, that I was an unusually pretty girl, though not so handsome as Amabel. She was and is one of the most beautiful women I ever saw in my life. I had a dark clear skin, with a fresh color, and the crisped or waved black hair so common in Cornwall. Amabel, on the contrary, was fair and delicate as a lily, with dark clear grey eyes, and a wonderful profusion of straight golden hair, a little inclining to redness. Her features were regular, and she had always a calm placid look, a little wondering, as it were, as though her spirit had not got over its surprise at the strange sphere wherein it found itself.

Ladies began to notice us, and gentlemen to pass and re-pass the door of the parlor, and put up their eye-glasses to stare at us. All this made Mrs. Thorpe a little uneasy, and she used now and then to make a pretext to send us out of the room.

One day, a grand equipage stopped at the door, with a great clatter of horse-hoofs. A lackey in a fine livery jumped down and opened the door, and a gentleman who was in the shop rushed forward to give his hand to a very fine lady indeed, who descended from the vehicle. She wore an immense hoop, at least eight yards in circumference, a sacque and petticoat of contrasting colors. Her hair was cut and curled close round her well-rouged and patched face, and she wore a very small chip hat cocked up at one side, and trimmed with very rich, white and silver ribbons. These same white ribbons had a significance which, at the time, I did not understand. The lady was followed by her gentlewoman in waiting, an impudent looking piece, nearly as fine as her mistress, who carried a horrid little lap-dog in her arms.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the gentleman, laying his hand on his heart with a theatrical air. "Do my eyes deceive me, or does the adorable Lady Throckmorton deign once more to bestow on our barbarous town the light of her presence? I had thought nothing would bring you from the Baths at this time of the year."

"And nothing would but dire necessity, I assure you, Captain Lovelace," answered the lady. "But Sir John's mother, who is much in years and very frail, desired to see her son, and Sir John would not travel without me—indeed he is not very fit to do so—so as I could not deprive the poor lady of what might be the last sight of her son, I was obliged to quit all the dear delights of the Baths."

"Angelic goodness!" said Captain Lovelace.

"Nay, 'twas no such great matter. We shall all come to age and infirmity some day. My lady has been a good mother to her son, and would have been to me if I had but let her."

The lady spoke these last words with a tone expressive of some emotion. I even thought there were tears in her beautiful eyes. If so, she soon dispersed them, and, as if she were ashamed of her late seriousness, she began to chatter the most arrant nonsense to Captain Lovelace and her dog, alternately,—treating the one with about as much respect as the other, I thought, while she turned over the caps and aprons Mrs. Thorpe showed her, calling one horrible—absolutely hideous and revolting—and another ravishing, angelic! Perfectly divine!

"I must positively try this on, my good Thorpe; it is just my style. Has any one else seen it?"

"Nobody, my lady. I have but this morning unpacked it, and I brought it from France only a few days ago. If your ladyship will step into the parlor."

Amabel and I were sitting in the parlor—Amabel reading and I busy with some pretence of needlework. We usually retired on such occasions, but I had a mind to see a little more of this very fine lady, and I am ashamed to say I purposely upset my work-basket, and set the spools rolling all about the floor. The two grey kittens instantly pounced upon them, and, while I was rescuing my materials, Lady Throckmorton entered the room. She stood as if transfixed for a moment.

"Whom have we here? A ghost from the other world!" she exclaimed. "Mrs. Thorpe, where have you found this living image of poor little Lady Leighton?"

"This is the daughter of Sir Julius Leighton, my lady," answered Mrs. Thorpe, presenting us; "and this is her cousin and foster-sister. I brought the young gentlewomen from France but a few days since, and they are staying here under my care till the smallpox shall be over at Highbeck Hall."

"Yes, I heard Mrs. Chloe was in a way to have her youthful beauty spoiled," said Captain Lovelace.

"For shame! You spiteful creature!" said the lady, giving him a blow with her closed fan. "Mrs. Chloe is my particular friend. And so are Lady Leighton's daughter, as well as her living image," she added, turning to Amabel, and speaking in quite a different tone. "I knew your mother well, my child. You and my Alice were born on the same day, but she was but a frail creature, fading in her earliest bloom."

Again a softer look came into her eyes. I never saw such eyes as hers. They were of a sapphire-blue, very bright and clear, with a sort of hardness and sharpness in them, and flashing with a fierce and baleful luster when she was offended. She was indeed a most curious mixture of good and evil, as I came to know afterward, but the evil predominated, being let to have its way unchecked, and she perished miserably at last, poor thing!

"Mrs. Thorpe never made a more beautiful or valuable importation, I am sure," said Captain Lovelace, bowing to us both, though he had not been included in—indeed, had been rather pointedly left out of—the presentation.

Lady Throckmorton's eyes flashed for a moment.

"Your presence in this room is not required, Captain Lovelace," said she in a stately fashion; then, as the gentleman retired, with an extravagant gesture of humility and despair, "You must not listen to such gallants, my loves," she added, in a lighter tone.

"I do not, madam," answered Amabel quietly.

"A dignified young lady, upon my word. And who is this?" Turning to me. "She reminds me of some one, I cannot tell who."

Mrs. Thorpe explained who I was, and her ladyship was pleased to say she remembered my mother quite well.

"She came from Cornwall with Lady Leighton, and they were quite inseparable, I remember," said she. "Your mother afterward married a gentleman who had a small estate in the neighborhood, and was killed by a fall from his horse. Yes, yes; I remember. My good Thorpe, you must take care of these visitors of yours."

"I hope to do so, my lady," answered Mrs. Thorpe, not without emphasis, as I thought.

"And have you seen anything of the town yet, my rose-buds?" asked the lady, turning to us. "I suppose not. Come, get your hoods, and I will take you for an airing. No, on second thought, I cannot either, for I promised my old lady to return in time for her afternoon drive. I shall have my own horses another day, and then I will call for you. Meantime, Mrs. Thorpe must let me present you each with one of these fine aprons."

So saying, she selected from the stock before her two lawn aprons with more puffs, ruffles, and lace than there was of the original stuff, and bestowing one upon each of us, she sailed out to her carriage, attended by Captain Lovelace, and followed by her maid and dog. This was our first sight of that famous beauty and wit, Lady Throckmorton of Newcastle. It would have saved us a good deal had it been the last.

"There goes a fine woman spoiled," said Mrs. Thorpe. "I was glad she was obliged to go, I did not like to have you go out with her, and I did not exactly know how to refuse."

"But why do you call her spoiled?" I asked. "I am sure she is very generous in giving us these beautiful aprons."

"'Tis not hard to be generous when some one else pays the bills," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "However, we will not judge the poor thing. Her notice was at least kindly meant. Perhaps if her children had lived she would have been different. But, my young ladies, though I do not like to deprive you of a pleasure, I fear I must banish you forth of this parlor during business hours. 'Tis too public a place for ladies of quality, and I have no mind to have you brought under the notice of Captain Lovelace and others of his stamp, of whom we have at present only too many in the town. So, my dears, you will amuse yourselves as well as you can in your own room."

We had now no choice but to withdraw, and were soon seated in our own pretty parlor.

"So it seems we are to be imprisoned in this dull room for the future!" said I, pettishly enough. "One might as well be in the convent again, as shut up in this poky place."

"You did not think it poky at first!" said Amabel. "And I think, Lucy, Mrs. Thorpe is right about our sitting in the shop. I am sure Mother Prudentia would say the same, if she were here."

"Mother Prudentia is not our governor now," I replied.

"No! But Mrs. Thorpe is, now that our relations have put us under her care. I must say, I don't care to see that Captain Lovelace again; I thought him very rude," answered Amabel with a flash of her eye, such as I had hardly ever seen before.

"You did not think Mr. Cheriton rude, when he gave you those flowers over the wall this morning!" said I.

"That was very different!" answered Amabel. "I am sure, Lucy, you can't compare Mr. Cheriton's manners with those of Captain Lovelace. Mrs. Thorpe herself was by and saw no harm. But I don't think it is very nice to be talking about young men in this way."

"One may as well talk of them as think of them, I suppose!" I answered, rather flippantly.

Amabel made me no answer, but withdrawing into a corner, she laid aside Mr. Thomson's poems, and, betook herself to her book of "Hours," which had been rather neglected of late. I took up my work, and we sat in silence, till called to dinner.

A few days afterwards, we were walking with Mrs. Crump. We had been to carry a basket of food some pensioner of Mrs. Thorpe's, and were pacing along rather soberly, thinking of the sad scene we had just witnessed, when we heard our names called.

We looked and saw Lady Throckmorton, leaning out of her carriage. She was more dressed than ever, with splendid jewels in her ears, and on her neck. Of course we stopped to curtsy, and were passing on, when she beckoned us again; the coachman at the same time drawing up to the side of the street.

"So I have caught you, my doves!" said she. "I must positively take you for an airing, and carry you home to have some tea with me. Nay, I will take no refusal. This good woman will make your excuses to Mrs. Thorpe, if any are needed."

Mrs. Crump was a very quiet woman, who dressed in the plainest way, and rarely said a needless word. She did not, however, seem at all dashed at the presence of the great lady, but answered her, even with dignity.

"So, please you madam, I think the young ladies had better see Mrs. Thorpe themselves, before going any where else."

"Woman, you forget yourself!" said Lady Throckmorton, with that angry flash of the eye, that I had observed before. "I would have your mistress know, that Lady Throckmorton's notice is an honor to any young lady. Come girls—my black haired beauty, I am sure, is not afraid of the old shopkeeper. Come, I cannot keep the horses standing."

I think Amabel would have refused, but that she saw me determined to accept Lady Throckmorton's invitation, and she would not let me go by myself. So we got into the carriage and drove away, leaving Mrs. Crump standing on the pavement.

"Insolent old creature!" said Lady Throckmorton. "But there, never mind her. Tell me about yourselves, and your life—where were you educated?"

"In France," we told her.

"Ah! That is how you come to carry yourselves so well; and what have you learned?"

I gave her as good an account as I could of our acquirements.

"Why! You are real paragons—I must have you with me, while I am here—I positively must, indeed—nothing takes like a new face, and your conventual simplicity is truly charming. It will never do for you to be buried at Highbeck Hall, with those old frights, each more absurd than the other. I must write to your father, Miss Amabel Leighton."

This was the first time I ever heard the title of Miss, which was just then coming into fashion.

"The ladies you speak of are my aunts, madame," said Amabel, with some dignity.

"That does not hinder their being old frights, child. Oh! You must not mind me, I say I think of every one. Well, here we are at home. I must introduce you to my poor old Sir John; he is not so old either, but a sad invalid, poor man."

We had driven into a paved court, and now alighted at the door of the handsomest mansion I had yet seen.

Lady Throckmorton led us through a grand hall, up a fine oak staircase, which reminded me of the great staircase at St. Jean, and into her own dressing-room; which was a rather small apartment, so crowded with all kinds of nick-nacks, that it was hard to move without knocking down a china mandarin, or a shepherdess, or upsetting a potpourri. The air was heavily laden with scents, as that of Mrs. Thorpe's shop. The windows were hung with rich draperies, and another curtain was looped over a door, which opened into a richly furnished bed-chamber. One of the most noticeable things in the room, was a finely painted portrait of a gentleman, surrounded by a wreath of white roses, so beautifully made, that at first I thought them real, and wondered where they came from.

"This is my den," said Lady Throckmorton. "I told Sir John I positively could not stay in this horrible old pile of bricks unless he would allow me to fit up two or three rooms to suit my own taste. He is a good-natured creature, and so, though he worships his hideous old chairs and tables as if they were veritable household gods, he gave me leave to do what I liked with these rooms, and a withdrawing-room down stairs. What do you think of the general effect, eh?"

She evidently expected us to be quite dazzled with all her splendor, and I indeed was so, though all the time I was conscious of a certain something which pained the eye. Amabel answered that we had seen so little of such things, that we were hardly good judges. My lady was evidently a little nettled by her coolness, and began to display one fine bit of china and gilding after another, till the entrance of her waiting-woman interrupted the lecture.

"Tea is ready, my lady," said the Abigail, as it was then the fashion to call these personages, "and Captain Lovelace and some other gentlemen are in the drawing-room."

"Dear me, I had no notion it was so late. You have been so entertaining, girls, that you have lent new wings to time."

N. B.—We had hardly said ten words between us, but I have observed that people are usually better entertained with their own conversation than that of any one else.

"See, Wilson, can you make these girls presentable at short notice? I wish to take them out with me this evening."

Mrs. Wilson looked critically at us, and began to suggest various additions to our simple toilets.

"No, on second thoughts, you may let them alone, only select one of my lace aprons and a necklace apiece for them. Those black velvet bands with the pearls sewed on will do. No, let the hair alone, 'tis well enough as it is. Those gipsy hats are very becoming, only they should be trimmed with white. Don't wear red ribbons, girls, whatever you do, but blue may pass well enough. There, that will answer, Wilson."

All this time, Mrs. Wilson had been pinning on the aprons, tying on the necklaces, and otherwise decorating us, till I felt as if I was a doll being dressed for Mrs. Thorpe's show window. I glanced at Amabel. She looked more uncomfortable than I had often seen her. There was not much time to notice looks, for my lady beckoned us to follow her, and we did so, passing down stairs into a small drawing-room, where was a table set out with a tea equipage in silver, and any number of odd little china cups.

There were two or three gentlemen in the room, and a thin middle-aged lady very plainly dressed, and with a good serene face, which attracted me at once. In one corner, with a table to himself, sat a thin elderly man, evidently an invalid, to whom we were presented as Sir John Throckmorton. The poor man's face brightened as he heard Amabel's name.

"And so you are Sir Julius Leighton's daughter," said he kindly. "Your father was an honest, worthy gentleman, and we have had many a day's sport together when we were young. I suppose he is still in London. Will he be coming north before long?"

"I do not know, Sir John," answered Amabel. "We have not heard from him since we landed in England."

"He will come north at the right time, I dare say," said Lady Throckmorton. "Come, Sir John, I cannot have you monopolizing our young ladies. We shall have cutting of throats presently."

She then gave us seats on each side of herself, and presented the gentlemen as they came up. I remember none of them except Captain Lovelace, who had the impudence to claim a previous acquaintance, and Mr. Cheriton, who came in just as the ceremony was concluded. He looked surprised, and, as it seemed to me, not very well-pleased, at finding us in such company.

I noticed in a moment that, while all the other gentlemen wore white rose-buds in their button-holes, he wore a red clove pink which Amabel had given him that very morning. I think Amabel saw it too, for she blushed and looked confused.

Lady Throckmorton's keen eyes flashed from one face to the other as if she suspected something.

"So you know my young visitors already, Mr. Cheriton," said she. "How is that?"

"We are neighbors, you know," answered Mr. Cheriton easily, "and as their parish priest and spiritual guide, it was my duty to make acquaintance with them."

I must say I was not pleased with the tone in which he spoke—as if his sacred profession were a thing to be joked about.

"And you ventured to come hither with a red flower in your button-hole!" continued the lady in the same bantering tone, which yet seemed to have a meaning in it.

"Red is my favorite color," answered Mr. Cheriton.

"I have heard it was a thrifty color—no doubt that recommends it," said one of the company with an undisguised sneer.

"You are right my lord, it is a thrifty color, and does not change, easily," answered Mr. Cheriton, dryly enough. "I have known many white roses turn red, but I don't know that I have ever seen a red one turn white."

"Let the white ones become the fashionable color and the red will turn fast enough," retorted the other angrily.

"Possibly, but that fashion has not yet been set."

"Come, come, I will have no sparring," said Lady Throckmorton imperatively. "Captain Lovelace, do you not see that Miss Bunnell has her tea all ready to dispense? What are you thinking of? Give them plenty of sugar, my good Bunnell, and sweeten their tempers."

On this hint the gentlemen bestirred themselves, and handed us little cups of tea with sponge cakes and other things of that kind. I had not yet learned to like tea, which I had never seen till I came to England, and Lady Throckmorton seeing that I did not drink mine, bade Mr. Cheriton exchange it for a cup of chocolate. My lady herself waited upon her husband, carrying him his chocolate and other refreshments, and spending some minutes in arranging them to his liking.

"How devoted Lady Throckmorton is to her husband! Is it not a pretty exhibition?" said Captain Lovelace in my ear, as he stood just behind me. "She is always so—at least when there is any one to see her. He has all his personal property in his own power, and she has no settlements to speak of; but of course that has nothing to do with the matter."

I knew nothing of settlements or personal property at that time, but I understood the implied detraction, and felt indignant at it. I had begun to feel very uncomfortable by that time, as if I had of my own accord walked into a net out of which I did not see my way. Presently Lady Throckmorton came back to her seat, and began asking the news of the day.

"They say the Methodists are coming hither again," said Captain Lovelace. "If so, we shall have some sport. You ought to have seen how we served them at Leeds when I was there. There was a bull-baiting in the town, and we drove the bull right in among them, as they stood with open mouths and ears, around their prophet. There was a fine scattering at first, I promise you. But if you will believe it, when the beast got into the crowd, he stood stock still by the side of Mr. Wesley himself, as quiet as he had been a tame dog." *

* This incident, or one nearly similar, happened at Pensford, March, 1742.

I saw Mrs. Bunnell smile at this, as with a kind of triumph, at which I wondered, for it seemed to me a mean and dastardly action.

"I have taken a shorter way than that," said Lord Bulmer. "I took up a local preacher, and another fellow of that sort who had the impudence to come praying and exhorting among my tenants, and sent them for soldiers on the spot. I told them I would soon stop their prayers, and one of them, if you will believe me, had the impudence to answer me: 'You cannot do that, my lord, unless you can stop the path to heaven.' Why, one of those rascals had the impudence to tell Dr. Borlase himself that he knew his sins were forgiven."

Again I saw the smile pass over Mrs. Bunnell's face.

"These Methodists seem to me to be a harmless sort of folks enough—mere visionary enthusiasts," said Mr. Cheriton, helping himself to a piece of plum cake as he spoke.

"They are traitors—rascals who turn the world upside down—Jesuits in disguise, if the truth was known," said Captain Lovelace.

"That, of course, would be enough to condemn them in your eyes," said Mr. Cheriton, carelessly, "your aversion to Jesuits, and those who are governed by them, being so well-known."

Again I saw by the expression of the faces around me, that the words had some hidden meaning.

"Well, well, we shall know how to serve them if they come here," said Lord Bulmer.

"They have been here already—do you not know it?" said Lady Throckmorton. "I myself heard a part of one of Mr. Wesley's sermons, and thought him very eloquent. And my good friend Bunnell here, was altogether won over by him, so that she thinks it a sin to wear so much as a feather or a necklace."

"Is that true, Mrs. Bunnell? Nay, I cannot have that," said Mr. Cheriton, turning to the lady, who had sat quietly behind her mistress. "I look upon you as one of the pillars of my church."

"Mr. Wesley withdraws no one from church," answered Mrs. Bunnell, in her clear, even tones. "On the contrary, it has been objected to him that he makes trouble for the clergy and sextons by bringing so many to the sacrament." *

* See Charles Wesley's "Journal."

"I could bear a little trouble of that kind, methinks," said the rector; "but surely, Mrs. Bunnell, you do not justify such presumption as a common man saying that he knows his sins are forgiven?"

"The paralytic was but a common man to whom One said, 'Thy sins be forgiven thee!'" answered Mrs. Bunnell. "And why should you read the absolution in church if no one is to believe himself absolved?"

"Come, come, Bunnell, we want no conventicles here. You and Mr. Cheriton must settle your disputes elsewhere than at my tea-table."

"Nay, madam, she did but answer my question," said Mr. Cheriton, good-naturedly.

"Then you need not have asked such a question," returned the lady sharply. "I hate people who are always dragging religion in by the head and shoulders, reminding one of everything dismal that one wishes to forget. Commend me to a preacher like yourself, Mr. Cheriton, who gives us good moral discourses that don't make one uncomfortable. I hate the Methodists, with their rant and pretence of spirituality, and what not, and I hope if the preachers come here again, they will get a warm reception. Gentlemen, if you have finished your tea, we ask to be excused, as I propose to take my young friends to the theatre this evening."

The gentlemen took their leave on this hint, and Mrs. Bunnell also withdrew. Sir John's man came and carried him off, and we were left alone with my lady.

"Bunnell is a good creature, and devoted to me," said her ladyship, when we were by ourselves, "but I think I shall have to let her go if she keeps on with her high-flown notions. I told her the other day that she might be content to let Mr. Cheriton think for her in such matters; and what do you suppose she answered me? Why, that as Mr. Cheriton could not be saved or lost for her, she must needs think for herself. But come, it is time we were going. See, here is a fan apiece for you," pulling out a handful from a box; "take your choice."

"But, madam, I think we should be going home," said Amabel. "It is growing dark."

"Nonsense, child! You are going to the play with me, and then I will set you down at home, or bring you back here, if it is too late. Nay, not a word," with an imperative gesture, as Amabel would have spoken. "You are in my hands, and must do as you are bid."

She left the room for a few moments, and Amabel turned to me.

"What shall we do?" said she. "Oh, how I wish we had never come."

"It was all my fault," I answered: "but I don't see how to help it now; we cannot find our way home alone, through this great town, especially as it is growing dark. If Mrs. Thorpe wanted us, she would send for us."

"True!" said Amabel. "She knows where we are, and could send Timothy for us."

She had done so, we found afterwards, but we were not told of it.

"We must do as my lady bids us, till we can get away; but Lucy! I do not like her, nor this place."

"Nor I!" I answered. "I feel as if we had got into the hands of the fairy Melusene, that Mother Prudentia told us of. I have not seen one person who seemed real to me, except that nice Mrs. Bunnell—and Mr. Cheriton."

My lady returned at this moment, so we had no chance for any further conversation. We went with her to the play; I don't remember what it was, and indeed, there was such a buzz of conversation, and the lights and music so bewildered me, and gave me such a headache, that I had much ado not to burst out crying. I was thankful enough when the evening concluded.

Captain Lovelace had been in the box all the evening, and had full possession of her ladyship's ear and attention. I fancy from words that I caught, that there was some political intelligence going among them. I saw that many of the ladies wore white ribbons, and other red; while a few seemed to have tried to make a compromise between the two.

"What ails you, child?" said my lady somewhat sharply, as the play being at last concluded, she had time to notice me. "You are as white as a ghost."

"Lucy has a bad headache, madame!" said Amabel, seeing that I was trying in vain to speak.

"A headache! Oh that is nothing—and yet it might be the beginning of an illness too!" added her ladyship. "Where had you been when I met you this afternoon?"

"To visit a poor sick woman, madame."

"A poor sick woman—very likely she had smallpox or something, and here you have been sitting with me all this time!" exclaimed her ladyship: "Who knows what I may have caught."

"The poor woman had nothing infectious," Amabel began, but Lady Throckmorton cut her short—

"There! Don't talk to me child—Williams, take these young ladies to Mrs. Thorpe's, and come back for me as quickly as you can; and mind you open all the glasses of the carriage. There! Good-night."

I hardly know how Williams made a passage for us through the crowd, but he did somehow, and we were quickly carried to Mrs. Thorpe's door, which indeed, was not far off. The good woman was up, and opened to us before the lackey had time to knock. She received us in absolute silence, and led the way to our room, where she lighted our candles, and turning round she addressed us with emphasis.

"Young ladies, I excuse you this time, seeing that you were, so to speak, taken at unawares; but this a thing that must never happen again; your aunts, who have known me for many years, have seen fit to place you under my care, and to me, you must be accountable, as much so, as the youngest apprentice I have. I would not have a young maiden in my house on any other terms—no! Not if she were the Queen's own daughter. You know my conditions now, and I expect you to abide by them."

She bade us a short good-night, and was turning away, when Amabel made bold to ask her for some drops for my head. She was all sympathy directly, helped me to undress, and brought me I knew not what of smelling-salts and Hungary water.

The kindness set me off into the fit of hysterical crying, which had been impending all the evening. Mrs. Thorpe dosed me with sal volatile, and sat by me till I fell asleep, to be tormented half the night with horrible dreams, in which I was alternately a fly, a mouse, and a persecuted Methodist; and Lady Throckmorton a spider, a fly, and a mad bull, intent on sending me for a soldier.

[CHAPTER X.]

MRS. DEBORAH.

THE next morning, I waked feeling weary and weak enough. Amabel was already up, and I saw her seated near the window with her work. I lay a little while thinking over what had happened, feeling both ashamed of myself, and vexed at Mrs. Thorpe. What right had she, a tradeswoman, to set up to dictate to, and order a gentleman's daughter? And yet, at the bottom of my heart, I felt that she was right, and I was wrong.

I made a move presently, and Amabel came to me.

"Is it very late?" I asked. "Have you been up long?"

"It is not late, but I have been up more than an hour!" answered Amabel. "I have been thinking about a great many things, Lucy. When you are dressed, I will tell you what they are."

"Well! Now tell me your thoughts!" said I, as I finished my rosary, (which I still said every morning), and sat down on the other side of the window. "I hope they are not very deep, or I shall not understand them, for I feel dreadfully stupid and heavy. What would Mother Prudentia say to our being out till eleven o'clock, and that at a play?"

"She would say we were very wrong, and so we were," answered Amabel with decision. "Lucy, we must never do such a thing again."

"I don't think it was anything to make such an ado about!" I answered. "We could not help going with my lady at last."

"But we could have helped it at first!" returned Amabel. "We might have listened to Mrs. Crump, when she told us what was right."

"Mrs. Thorpe has no right to order us so!" I said, speaking out what I had been thinking.

"She has a perfect right, seeing that my aunt has placed us under her care!" said Amabel, "Think too, how kind she has been to us. How good she was last night; she did not wish to turn you out of her house, because you had a headache, like that other woman."

I remembered this, and began to feel ashamed of myself, for thinking of our kind hostess as I had done, and at last I agreed with Amabel that we had done wrong, and must ask pardon, as much as if it had been Mother Superior that we had offended.

My heart began to feel a little lightened, when arrived at this point, for the time when conscience stings us worst, is while we are refusing to allow that it stings at all. We knew that Mrs. Thorpe spent a little time in her closet every morning before she came to breakfast, and we determined to seek her there.

"There is another thing I have been considering!" said Amabel, when this matter was finally settled. "We have lived a very idle life, lately. Just think! We have been here nearly three weeks, and what have we to show for it? Not one thing."

"We have read a good deal!" I answered.

"Yes! But not in a way to do us any good. We have not done any lessons, or worked, either for ourselves or the poor; we have not kept to any rule, such as we have always been used to."

"I know it!" I answered! "I have thought of it a good many times. But then you know, Amabel, we have never been used to making rules, or deciding anything for ourselves, and somehow one does not know how to set about it."

"But people must learn to make rules for themselves!" said Amabel, with that gentle decision which has always characterized her, when her mind is made up. "Only a very small part of the people in the world can live in convents: otherwise everything would be at a stand still. And those who live in the world, must often decide for themselves, and regulate their own conduct, and I don't see why we should not do so."

"But, Amabel, we cannot observe all our own convent rules here!" I objected. "It would turn the house upside down, if we were to insist on having our meals at just such times as we used to at St. Jean."

"Those things are not of much consequence!" answered Amabel. "For aught I know, one may as well eat at one time as another. But we can take certain hours for working for the poor, and others for profitable reading and so on. That would disturb nobody; and I am sure we should accomplish a great deal more, and feel better ourselves. Suppose we make a set of clothes for that poor little lame girl we went to see yesterday. It will soon be cold weather, and she will need a warm gown and woolen hose. Did you not see how thin her things were, and how carefully mended?"

I agreed that it would be a very good plan, and then we sat a few minutes in silence.

"There is one thing that puzzles me!" said I presently. "Every one says, that the religious life is the highest, and yet it is plain that only a few people out of all the world can enter it; because, as you say, the work of the world would come to a stand still, if nobody married and brought up children, and were shop-keepers and lawyers, and so on. But yet, it seems as if every one ought to serve God in the best possible way; and if the religious life is the best way, then every one ought to be religious. I do not understand it."

"Every one has not a vocation!" said Amabel.

"But if a vocation pleases God most, then every one ought to have it!" I persisted.

"I have heard Mother Prudentia say, that the religious were like the cream that rises to the top of the milk!" said Amabel. "The skimmed milk may have its uses too."

"The skimmed milk may have its uses, but I don't believe it is the best for the children!" I returned. "And that is what they get, poor things, if all the best women are to become nuns, and leave only the second-rate ones to become mothers and bring up the little ones."

"Now you are reasoning, and using your own private judgment!" said Amabel, a little severely—"And you know the church forbids that."

I did not answer but I thought all the more. How was I to help using my private judgment, so long as I was in a world full of things to be judged? And even if I gave up in everything to the church, was it not because my private judgment told me that was the right way? It was a very puzzling business, and the worst was, that having begun to think, I could not stop.

"There!" said Amabel, rising as the clock struck eight. "Now we can go to Mrs. Thorpe. Come, Lucy!"

We found the good woman in her closet; a small room opening from her parlor, where she had a table, and chair, a shelf or two of books, a clock, and her large Bible and prayer-book, both of which lay open.

"Good morning, my dear young ladies!" said Mrs. Thorpe, as heartily as if nothing had happened. "I did not think you would be awake so early, and told Betsy not to disturb you."

"We have been up a long time, but we did not wish to interrupt you!" answered Amabel. "Mrs. Thorpe we have come to say, that we are very sorry for what happened yesterday, and we will never go anywhere again without your permission."

"And I am sorry I cried so last night!" I added on my own account.

Crying when reproved was a great offence in our convent days.

"Bless you, my dear, you could not help it; it was only a fit of the mother—hysterics, folks call it nowadays—from being tired, and over-wrought. But I don't want to be arbitrary with you, my dears. You are not children any more, and though I do hold to absolute obedience on the part of young folks to their elders who have the charge, and must answer for them, yet I would have it a reasonable, and not a blind obedience. The world, my dears, is full of snares for the young, and especially for young maids—snares of which they know and can know nothing, neither what they are nor how to guard against them; neither should they wish to know, seeing that the very knowledge of evil tends in some measure to corrupt the mind.

"'Can a man touch pitch, and not be defiled?' asks the good book? And so young people, and particularly young maids, whether gentle or simple, must be contented to do what they are bid, and come and go as they are told by those to whom the Lord has given the ordering of them. Many a girl who is now on the streets of Newcastle ruined in body and soul, and made as the offscourings of all men, might be safe at home, if she would but have trusted in, and been guided by her mother, whose heart she has broken, bringing her down in shame and sorrow to her grave."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such feeling and tenderness, that it brought the tears to both our eyes.

"There, now I have preached my little sermon, and we will say no more about this matter!" resumed Mrs. Thorpe, in a more cheerful tone. "We will have our breakfast, and then I have something else to say to you."

We usually breakfasted alone with Mrs. Thorpe, who liked to sit chatting over her cup of tea, having regulated her domestic affairs at an early hour. We had not then learned to drink tea, and Mrs. Thorpe had had a pot of chocolate prepared for us. We sat sipping it, while she opened her great subject.

"My dears, do you think you are making the most of your time?"

We looked at each other, and smiled.

"No, madam! We have been very lazy since we came hither!" answered Amabel. "Lucy and I were talking that matter over this very morning, and agreeing that we must set ourselves at work."

"Why, that is well!" said Mrs. Thorpe, evidently much pleased. "I don't much believe in praise to the face, which is open disgrace, the old rhyme says. But I must needs say, that two more candid young people I never met with." Then reverting to her subject—"I think you told me you had learned music."

"We learned to sing, and a little of the organ," Amabel answered.

"How would you like to learn the harpsichord?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

Amabel's eyes sparkled. We had seen one of these wonderful instruments at Mrs. Lowther's school, whither we had gone one day with Mrs. Thorpe; and we had heard one of her young ladies play a lesson of Mr. Handel's.

"Because!" continued Mrs. Thorpe without waiting for an answer, or perhaps seeing one in our faces. "I have taken a fine instrument from a lady in this town who owed me money, and had no other means of paying me; and I would rather you used it than not. I daresay now, you are thinking it was hard-hearted in me, to take the poor lady's harpsichord," added Mrs. Thorpe abruptly, changing the subject.

"No, madam! I do not believe you would ever do anything hard!" I answered.

"If the lady had been poor, and had gone in debt for necessaries, I should never have done it!" continued Mrs. Thorpe; "but such was not the case. She is a widow lady, with a handsome jointure enough, to maintain her as nicely as need be, in a somewhat quiet way, but that does not satisfy her. No! She must needs flaunt it with the finest in the county; and she has run in debt on every side, till there is hardly a tradesman within a mile who has her not on his books. Not one thing does she ever deny herself that she wants. Poor Gileson the confectioner, who has a sickly wife and six little ones, told me that she owed him more than fifty pounds.

"Ah! My dears, we hear much about hard-hearted creditors, but I have seen a deal more of hard-hearted debtors in my time. But I had no mind to wait on my fine lady or to lose by her either; so I told her I must have either money or money's worth before night; so she turned me over this harpsichord and some laces. Now I know an excellent elderly gentleman in this part of the town, who plays very finely. He is the organist in Mr. Cheriton's church, and is glad to eke out a living for himself and his wife, by giving lessons in music, arithmetic, and other things, for he is a fine scholar they tell me. What would you say to taking some lessons of this gentleman? It would occupy you pleasantly, and you would be improving yourselves at the same time.

"I was never for driving young folks from morning till night, but I don't like to see their days running to waste, either. Time, my dear young ladies, is a thing which once lost, can never return. If you lose your health, you may recover it; if your money, you may earn or inherit more; but days wasted can never be found again, either in time or eternity, that I know of."

Mrs. Thorpe spoke impressively, as was her wont when on serious subjects.

"But not to talk of that now," she added in her usual business-like tone. "Your honored father, Mrs. Amabel, bade me use my own judgment with regard to your expenses, so I am not afraid to undertake this matter. The harpsichord will be here this morning, and I will send to Mr. Lilburne to wait upon you at once."

"There is another thing we were talking of this morning," said Amabel when this matter was settled. "Lucy and I were always accustomed to spend some of our time in working for the poor while we lived at St. Jean, and we thought if you approved, we would make some warm garments and hose for that poor lame girl we went to see yesterday. We both have most of the money left that you brought us and if you would kindly buy us the stuffs and the worsted, we might set ourselves at work directly."

She put her hand in her pocket as she spoke, and withdrew it with a very startled look.

"My purse is gone!" said she. "And just look—my pocket is cut open from the top to the bottom."

"It must have been done at the theatre last night," said Mrs. Thorpe, looking at the pocket which had clearly been slit from top to bottom with some sharp instrument. "Were you much mixed up in the crowd?"

"Yes. Don't you remember, Amabel, how we were squeezed just outside the door? The man could hardly make way through the press. And mine is gone too," I added, pulling out my pocket as I spoke, and having much ado not to burst into tears. It was the very first money I had ever owned, and it seemed such a cruelty to deprive me of it, and where were poor Annie's warm clothes to come from?

"I dare say the pickpockets made a fine harvest," said Mrs. Thorpe. "It is a very favorite scheme of theirs, and the theatre is a favorite place for their operations. But there, don't cry, my dears, perhaps I can help you about the clothes. You had better look at your camlet dresses and see whether they do not need mending, and if so do it at once. Camlet ravels so badly. I will match the color for you in fine sewing-silk."

A customer at this moment called Mrs. Thorpe into the shop.

We betook ourselves to our own room, and there we did have a little cry together over our lost guineas. But there was no use in wasting time in regrets, and there were our new gowns of plum-colored silk camlet, each with a long slit down the side to be mended.

Mrs. Thorpe matched the silk nicely, and after the repairs were finished, we set to collecting all our working materials. We had begun several pieces at St. Jean, and purchased quite a little store of embroidery silks and lace thread, in Toulon. Amabel proposed that we should take up these pieces and finish them in rotation. We still had our table covered with them when Mrs. Thorpe came up and began admiring them.

"I'll tell you what, my dear Mrs. Amabel and Mrs. Lucy, (I shall never learn to use this new-fangled title, and I don't know that I care to either. In my young days, to call a lady a Miss was to give her about the worst name one could devise), but I'll tell you what, young ladies, I was going to offer to provide you with the stuff for your work, but if you choose to finish these two cravats which I see you have begun, I can sell them for you for money enough to clothe the poor girl and send her to school into the bargain, and then the gift will be all your own. But they must be done soon, for fashions, you know, change like the moon, only one can't calculate on their changes."

Here was an unexpected way out of our trouble. I confess the thought did cross my mind that it was somewhat beneath the dignity of young ladies of quality to work for money, and I said as much to Amabel when Mrs. Thorpe had left the room to superintend the moving of the harpsichord.

"But we are working for the poor in making the lace as much as if we were knitting hose or making shifts," replied Amabel. "The mothers and sisters used to work for money, and they were of noble family."

"But they were religious, and vowed to humility and poverty," I objected. "Does not that make a difference?"

"The more I think about it, the more it seems to me, that no one person is bound to be religious more than another," said Amabel. "You know we should both have become nuns if we had had our way, and why are we to be less devoted because we live here instead of at St. Jean?"

Our conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the man with the harpsichord, a handsome new instrument, which they placed in our parlor. Mrs. Thorpe followed with her arms full of music-books, and bringing with her a tall white-haired old gentleman, whom she introduced as Mr. Lilburne. I took a great liking to him at once. He examined the harpsichord, pronounced it a fine one and in perfect tune, and, at Mrs. Thorpe's request, played some airs, which he said were from Mr. Handel's oratorio of the Messiah. Finding that we could read music and had some knowledge of the theory, he gave us a lesson, promising to call the next day but one and hear us play it.

This was destined to be a day of surprises. Amabel was carefully playing over her lesson, and I was busily working at my lace piece, when we heard some one coming up stairs, and Mrs. Thorpe herself throwing open the door announced, with some trepidation—