omen,--the mother of the Saviour. But why should we pray to her, when
Jesus is the only intercessor for our sins with the Father? Why, _ma
chere mere_?"

_"Helas! ma fille_. You learned to slight the intercession of the holy
saints while you were at the convent. It is strange. I thought I could
trust you there".

"Do not think it the fault of the sisters, _chere mere_. They did
their duty. This way of thinking _came_ to me. I did not seek it,
indeed".

"How did it come to you, _ma pauvre fille_?"

"I will tell you. The first time I went into the convent parlor,
Sister Adrienne, thinking to amuse me, took me around the room and
showed me its curiosities. But I was filled, with an infinite disgust.
I did not distinctly know then why I was so sickened, but I understand
it all now".

"What did you see, Adele?"

"Eh! those horrid relics of saints,--those teeth, those bones, those
locks of hair in the cabinet. Then that awful skeleton of sister
Agnes, who founded the convent and was the first Abbess, covered with
wax and preserved in a crystal case! I thought I was in some
charnel-house. I could hardly breathe. Do you like such parlor
ornaments as those, _ma chere mere_?"

"Not quite".

"What do we want of the dry bones of the saints, when we have memoirs
of their precious lives? They would themselves spurn the superstition
that consecrates mere earthly dust. It nauseates me to think of it".

"_Procedez, ma fille_".

"My friend from the States, Mabel Barton, came to the convent, the day
I arrived. As our studies were the same, and as, at first, we were
both homesick, the sisters permitted us to be together much of the
time. _Eh! bien!_ I read her books, her Bible, and so light dawned.
She used to pray to the Father, through the Redeemer. I liked that way
best. But _ma mere_, our cathedral service is sublime. There is
nothing like _that_. Now you will forgive me. The arches, the altar,
the incense, the glorious surging waves of music,--these raised me and
Mabel, likewise, up to the lofty third heaven. How high, how holy we
felt, when we worshipped there. Because I like the cathedral, you will
forgive me for all I said before,--will you not, _ma chere mere_?"

Turning her head suddenly towards her mother, Adele saw her eyes
filled with tears.

"_Eh! ma chere mere, pardonnez moi_. I have pained you". And she rose
and flung her arms, passionately, around her mother's neck.

"_Pauvre fille!_" said the mother, ret