pose, monsieur; we have no right to larger
regrets than have others. Come, my children, let us go."

With a last look round the room that had seen so much of her life
within its walls, she passed out, and bidding us gather our lighter
valuables and some clothing, withdrew for a few moments to her own
room, and then rejoined us in the hallway.

We made a sad little procession as we threaded our way through the
ruined streets, between the smoking and crumbling walls of the
homes we had looked upon but yesterday, bright with all the assuring
signs of comfortable, secure life, past the wrecked Cathedral, and
between piles of household goods heaped in ruinous confusion in
the Place. This was now crowded with anxious, pale-faced people,
hollow-eyed and aged with the terror of actual war, seeking out
their little valuables, some with shrill-voiced complaint and
contention, others with a hopeless, silent mien that went to our
hearts, and yet others with an air of gayety and the tricks and
buffooneries of school children.

[Illustration: "We made a sad little procession."]

We were thankful to escape out of the hubbub and distraction of
the streets to the quiet within the walls of the Hotel-Dieu; but,
alas! the next night the bombardment recommenced, and it was apparent
we could not long hope for safety, as the English fire became more
exact and far-reaching.

The white-robed nuns moved about their duties with calm resignation,
though often the trembling lips or the involuntary start told of
the strain it cost to control the natural alarm which shook the
heart when some nearer crash foretold approaching disaster.

Lucy lay calm and unmoved; every day that brought the English
nearer, was bringing her nearer to Kit. The thunder of the bombardment
was to her like the knocking on the gate which shut her in from
her one object in life, and that it was being shattered meant only
deliverance. When orders came to remove to the General Hospital,
without the walls of the town and beyond all immediate danger, she
was more disturbed than at any time during the siege.

The Hospital stood in the valley of the St. Charles, somewhat less
than a mile from the town, with the river sweeping in a great bend
on the one side, and the steep Heights, at the end of which the
town stood, rising on the other. We were cut off from any view of
the St. Lawrence, but the sight of the bridge of boats, with its
hornwork, across the tongue of land enclo