after the long interview
with her mother, were the Mother Superior, and the Sister who had
summoned her to the parlor.

While Lady Alice and the Reverend Mother exchanged a few last words,
Lesley drew close to Sister Rose's side, and laid her hand on the
serge-covered arm.

"You were right," she said. "Sister, I see already that I shall need
patience and endurance where I am going."

"Gentleness and love, also," said the Sister. Then, as if in answer to
an indefinable change in Lesley's lips and eyes, she added gently, "We
are told that peacemakers are blessed."

"I could not make peace----" Lesley began, hastily, and then she stopped
short, confused, not knowing how much Sister Rose had heard of her
mother's story. But if Sister Rose were ignorant of it, her next words
were singularly appropriate. For she said, in a low tone--

"Peace is better than war: forgiveness better than hatred. Dear child,
it may be in your hands to reconcile those who have been long divided.
Do your best."

Lesley had no time to reply.

It was a long drive from the Convent of the Annonciades to the hotel
where Lord Courtleroy and Lady Alice were staying. The mother and
daughter spoke little; each seemed wrapped in her own reflections. There
were a hundred questions which Lesley was longing to ask; but she did
not like to disturb her mother's silence. Dusk had fallen before their
destination was reached; and Lesley's thoughts were diverted a little
from their sad bewilderment by what was to her the novel sight of Paris
by gaslight, and the ever-flowing, opposing currents of human beings
that filled the streets. Hitherto, when she had left the Sisters for her
holidays, her mother had wisely kept her within certain bounds: she had
not gone out of doors after dark, she had not seen anything but the
quieter sides of life. But now all seemed to be changed. Her mother
mentioned the name of the best hotel in Paris as their destination: she
said a few words about shopping, dresses, and jewellery, which made
Lesley's heart beat faster, in spite of a conviction that it was very
mean and base to feel any joy in such trivial matters. Especially under
present circumstances. But she was young and full of life; and there
certainly was some excitement in the prospect before her.

"I shall not need much where I am going, shall I?" she hazarded timidly.

"Perhaps not, but you must not be in any difficulty. There is not time
to do a great deal, but yo