added;
for Giselle had many little convent maxims at her fingers' ends, to
which, when she uttered them, her sincerity of look and tone gave a
personal meaning.

"You are right," said Jacqueline, much moved. "It has done me good to see
you. Take this chocolate."

"And you must take this," said Giselle, giving her a little illuminated
card, with sacred words and symbols.

"Adieu, dearest-say, have you ever detested any one?"

"Never!" cried Giselle, with horror.

"Well! I do detest--detest--You are right, I will go into the chapel. I
need some exorcism."

And laughing at her use of this last word--the same little mirthless
laugh that she had uttered before--Jacqueline went away, followed by the
admiring glances of the other girls, who from behind the bars of their
cage noted the brilliant plumage of this bird who was at liberty. She
crossed the courtyard, and, followed by Modeste, entered the chapel,
where she sank upon her knees. The mystic half-light of the place, tinged
purple by its passage through the stained windows, seemed to enlarge the
little chancel, parted in two by a double grille, behind which the nuns
could hear the service without being seen.

The silence was so deep that the low murmur of a prayer could now and
then be heard. The worshipers might have fancied themselves a hundred
leagues from all the noises of the world, which seemed to die out when
they reached the convent walls.

Jacqueline read, and re-read mechanically, the words printed in letters
of gold on the little card Giselle had given her. It was a symbolical
picture, and very ugly; but the words were: "Oh! that I had wings like a
dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest."

"Wings!" she repeated, with vague aspiration. The aspiration seemed to
disengage her from herself, and from this earth, which had nothing more
to offer her. Ah! how far away was now the time when she had entered
churches, full of happiness and hope, to offer a candle that her prayer
might be granted, which she felt sure it would be! All was vanity! As she
gazed at the grille, behind which so many women, whose worldly lives had
been cut short, now lived, safe from the sorrows and temptations of this
world, Jacqueline seemed for the first time to understand why Giselle
regretted that she might not share forever the blessed peace enjoyed in
the convent. A torpor stole over her, caused by the dimness, the faint
odor of the incense, and the solemn silence. She