that this young man is known to be living.'

'You are right, sister. No harm can have been done. All will go well.
The child must be wearied with her frenzy of grief and devotion! She
will catch gladly at an excuse for change. A scene or two, and she will
readily yield!'

'It is true,' said the Abbess, thoughtfully, 'that she has walked and
ridden out lately. She has asked questions about her Chateaux, and their
garrisons. I have heard nothing of the stricter convent for many weeks;
but still, brother, you must go warily to work.'

'And you, sister, must show no relenting. Let her not fancy she can work
upon you.'

By this time the brother and sister were at the gateway of the convent;
a lay sister presided there, but there was no _cloture_, as the strict
seclusion of a nunnery was called, and the Chevalier rode into the
cloistered quadrangle as naturally as if he had been entering a secular
Chateau, dismounted at the porch of the hall, and followed Madame de
Bellaise to the parlour, while she dispatched a request that her niece
would attend her there.

The parlour had no grating to divide it, but was merely a large room
furnished with tapestry, carved chests, chairs, and cushions, much
like other reception-rooms. A large, cheerful wood-fire blazed upon
the hearth, and there was a certain air of preparation, as indeed an
ecclesiastical dignity from Saumur was expected to sup with the ladies
that evening.

After some interval, spent by the Chevalier in warming himself, a low
voice at the door was heard, saying, '_Deus vobiscum_.' The Abbess
answered, '_Et cum spiritu tuo_;' and on this monastic substitute for a
knock and 'come in,' there appeared a figure draped and veiled from head
to foot in heavy black, so as to look almost like a sable moving
cone. She made an obeisance as she entered, saying, 'You commanded my
presence, Madame?'

'Your uncle would speak to you, daughter, on affairs of moment.'

'At his service. I, too, would speak to him.'

'First, then, my dear friend,' said the Chevalier, 'let me see you. That
face must not be muffled any longer from those who love you.'

She made no movement of obedience, until her aunt peremptorily bade her
turn back her veil. She did so, and disclosed the little face, so well
known to her uncle, but less childish in its form, and the dark eyes
sparkling, though at once softer and more resolute.

'Ah! my fair niece,' said the Chevalier, 'this is no visage to be
hi