thy, and was still too languid and weak to think of the
loss in reference to herself, or to realise that, so far as
she knew, she had now no relation in the world. Nor did such
realization come at once, even when she grew stronger; her
aunt had counted for so little in her present mode of life,
that it did not occur to her that her death might bring any
possible change into it; indeed, as we have said, she had
ceased to look for any immediate change. Monsieur Horace had
brought her to the convent, and Soeur Lucie took care of her
there, and so she supposed matters would go on for the
present.

If, however, the news of her aunt's death affected her but
little, it was quite otherwise with another conversation that
she overheard a few days later, and which, indeed, was not
meant for her ears either. She had awakened one evening from a
long, sound sleep, and was lying quietly in the dusk, dreamily
wondering how soon she should make up her mind to arouse
herself and take the medicine that she knew awaited her as
soon as she should declare herself awake, when Soeur Ursule
entered the room. She had come with some message to Soeur
Lucie, and when it was delivered, stood chatting a few minutes
by the window where Soeur Lucie sat knitting. She was a gaunt,
brisk, elderly woman, who had been governess in a large
school, before an opportune legacy had enabled her to fulfil
her dearest wish and enter the convent, where, with fresh zeal
and energy, she resumed the duties most congenial to her, as
teacher and superintendent of the school. Thoroughly devout
and conscientious, and with a kind heart _au fond_, she
nevertheless brought with her into her new sphere all the
habits and modes of thought acquired during a long struggle
with a very hard, secular world--a practical turn of mind,
verging on hardness, a dictatorial manner, a certain opinion-
activeness, which still showed itself now and then in oddest
contrast with the habitual submission demanded of a nun.

"She looks better this evening," she said now, nodding towards
the bed where Madelon lay with her eyes still closed.

"Yes, yes, she is getting on; I shall have her up to-morrow, I
hope," answered Soeur Lucie, with some natural pride in this
specimen of successful nursing.

"Ah, well--she could have been better spared though, than some
that are gone," answered the other; "but no doubt it is all
for the best. Not but that I am glad that the child is
recovering--still w