the convent of the Sacred Heart at Montreal. Father
Sauvalle was to be thanked for this.

Very proudly and with much solemnity the priest took a letter from the
folds of his robe, and as he opened it, impressively told her the
letter he held was the very one which had brought the great news. As
he read it to her, his face beamed with smiles. Little wonder they
were pleased, for it was an honor indeed to the little town of St.
Jerome to be able to say that one of its daughters had been admitted
to this convent, noted as it was for its exclusiveness and the
severity of its discipline.

"The convent!" she exclaimed falteringly.

They noticed how pale her face had suddenly grown. They were not
surprised; it was meet that the sudden news of the honor in store for
her should cause some emotion.

"We have talked the matter over," continued the priest, graciously,
"and have decided that, as you already have served your novitiate, you
may as well return to the convent in a few days. In a month or so
later you will be ready to take your final vows. Your father is an old
man now and has been sorely tried, and has sinned deeply--yea, even
uttered anathemas against the Church. But the Blessed Mother heard
the prayers of the Church for your recovery, and so his soul was saved
from--"

"He anathematised the Church because of me?" Adele interrupted, fear
gleaming in her eyes.

For a few moments no one spoke. The painful silence was broken by her
father struggling to his feet. Beseechingly he looked at the great
crucifix, made the sign of the cross on his bosom, and then turned his
wavering gaze on his daughter, who had shrunk back in her chair and
covered her eyes, as though she dared not look at him.

"I had not meant you to know this," he said, tightly clutching the arm
of his chair for support. "I think I must have been mad when I did it;
I had set my heart so on having a daughter in the Church, and had been
disappointed so often. When they said your illness was fatal, I said,
in my misery, that there was no Virgin, or she would not let such
suffering fall upon me. Even now, wrong as I know it to be, I fear if
anything should happen that you did not take the veil, I should drift
back again into unbelief."

"Cease, cease! Hormisdas," cried the priest, raising his hand
authoritatively.

The old man walked weakly over to his wife. The priest turned his
attention to Adele, and said to her soothingly, "There is nothing to
f