he curiosity he had felt as to the details of
the sorrow which had driven her to this refuge of isolation and hard
work. He began to feel about her as Father Antoine did, that there was
a certain sacredness in her vocation which almost demanded a recognition
of title, an investiture of office. Hetty would have been astonished,
and would have very likely laughed, had she known with what a halo
of sentiment her daily life was fast being surrounded in the minds of
people. To her it was simply a routine of good, wholesome work; of a
kind for which she was best fitted, and which enabled her to earn a
comfortable living most easily to herself, and most helpfully to others;
and left her "less time to think," as she often said to herself, "than
any thing else I could possibly have done." "Time to think" was the one
thing Hetty dreaded. As resolutely as if they were a sin, she strove to
keep out of her mind all reminiscences of her home, all thoughts of her
husband, of Raby. Whenever she gave way to them, she was unfitted for
work; and, therefore, her conscience said they were wrong. While she was
face to face with suffering ones, and her hands were busy in ministering
to their wants, such thoughts never intruded upon her. It was literally
true that, in such hours, she never recollected that she was any other
than Hibba Smailli, the nurse. But, when her day's work was done, and
she went home to the little lonely cottage, memories flocked in at the
silent door, shut themselves in with her, and refused to be banished.
Hence she formed the habit of lingering in the street, of chatting with
the villagers on their door-steps, playing with the children, and
often, when there was illness in any of the houses, going into them, and
volunteering her services as nurse.

The St. Mary's people were, almost without exception, of French descent,
and still kept up many of the old French customs of out-door _fetes_
and ceremonies. Hetty found their joyous, child-like ways and manners
singularly attractive and interesting. After the grim composure, and
substantial, reflective methods of her New England life, the _abandon_
and unthinkingness of these French-Canadians were bewildering and
delightful to her.

"The whole town is every night like a Sunday-school picnic in our
country," she said once to Father Antoine. "What children all these
people are!"

"Yes, daughter, it is so," replied the priest; "and it is well. Does not
our good Lord say th