dden it! But it is sweet amid my affliction to know that
Pierre has not forgotten me, that he does not hate me, nay, that he
still loves me, although I abandon the world and him who to me was the
light of it. Why would they not admit him?"

"Mere Migeon is as hard as she is just, Amelie. I think too she has no
love for the Philiberts. Her nephew Varin has all the influence of a
spoilt son over the Lady Superior."

Amelie scarcely regarded the last remark of her aunt, but repeated the
words, "Hard and just! Yes, it is true, and hardness and justice are
what I crave in my misery. The flintiest couch shall be to me a bed of
down, the scantiest fare a royal feast, the hardest penance a life of
pleasure. Mere Migeon cannot be more hard nor more just to me than I
would be to myself."

"My poor Amelie! My poor Heloise!" repeated the lady, stroking their
hair and kissing them both alternately; "be it as God wills. When it is
dark every prospect lies hid in the darkness, but it is there all the
same, though we see it not; but when the day returns everything is
revealed. We see naught before us now but the image of our Lady of
Grand Pouvoir illumined by the lamp of Repentigny, but the sun of
righteousness will yet arise with healing on his wings for us all! But
oh, my children, let nothing be done hastily, rashly, or unbecoming the
daughters of our honorable house."

CHAPTER LIII. "LOVELY IN DEATH THE BEAUTEOUS RUIN LAY."

The chant of vespers had long ceased. The Angelus had rung its last
summons to invoke a blessing upon life and death at the close of
the day. The quiet nuns filed off from their frugal meal in the long
refectory and betook themselves to the community or to their peaceful
cells. The troop of children in their charge had been sent with prayer
to their little couches in the dormitory, sacred to sleep and happy
dreams.

Candles flickered through the long passages as veiled figures slowly
and noiselessly passed towards the chapel to their private devotions.
Scarcely a footfall reached the ear, nor sound of any kind, except the
sweet voice of Mere Madelaine de St. Borgia. Like the flow of a full
stream in the still moonlight, she sang her canticle of praise to the
guardian of the house, before she retired to rest:

"Ave, Joseph! Fili David juste!
Vir Mariae de qua natus est Jesus!"

Lady de Tilly sat listening as she held the hands of her two nieces,
thinking how merciless was Fate, an