to appeal to their eyes, to attract them by the charm of the women who teach and tend them. The Church chooses for these duties the Sisters whose countenances are most pleasing and cheerful, for it seems as though she wished, by the smiling faces of the younger Sisters, to replace the absent mother's smile for the poor little orphans.

Of the ten Sisters who had charge of these orphans, nearly all were young, nearly all pretty; those even who had not regular features had a gentle glance, a sweet smile that made them sympathetic and charming. One only formed an exception, and she, poor thing, was utterly devoid of grace.

This Sister was slightly humpbacked, one shoulder being higher than the other, spoke with a strong provincial accent that made her thoroughly ridiculous, and, moreover, had a face like a mask.

It was impossible to see or hear her without recalling Punch. to mind. The children had nicknamed her Sister Carabosse. With the gestures of a man, she crossed her legs, stuck her arms akimbo in speaking, and stood with her hands behind her back. Her manners, too, were abrupt and rough, and at first sight her thick, black eyebrows inspired fear. Notwithstanding appearances, however, Sister Marguerite was the best of creatures. The small allowance her family-small land-owners in Périgord -gave her was entirely spent on cakes for the children when taken out walking. Seeing this little girl remain surly and lonely among companions of her own age, not joining even in their games, the kind Sister comprehended that there existed some wounded feeling, some need for consolation in the child whom the other Sisters, rebuffed in their first advances, now abandoned to her isolation. Instinctively she attached herself to Philomène, occupied herself with her during playtime, bought her a skipping-rope, and lightened her sewing task — in short, Philomène became her favorite, her adopted protégée. One day after lunch, without any apparent cause, Philomène threw herself into the Sister's arms and burst into tears, finding no other way of thanking her. The Sister did not know what to say, for she also began to cry, without knowing why, when suddenly the child broke into a laugh, and her moist eyes brightened. As she raised her head she had just caught sight of the ridiculous appearance that Sister Carabosse presented with tears streaming down her cheeks.

From that moment Philomène became like her little com

panions; a slightly serious look only remained on her otherwise open and frank countenance. She took pleasure in the amusements of her age, recovered the spirit, appetite, tastes, and boisterous health of youth, and eagerly joined in all the games. A spirit of emulation took possession of her, and she became interested in her work. She often thought of the large silver heart of the Virgin hanging in the oratory, with the names of the girls who had behaved best during the week pinned up around it; and she envied all the badges distributed for assiduity in the work-room-the green ribbon and silver medal of the Infant Jesus, the red ribbon of Saint Louis of Gonzague, or the white ribbon of the Holy Angels.

Each week now brought its amusement, the Thursday's walk, now an intense pleasure, which in early days had seemed so dull and mournful.

The Sisters nearly always took the little flock along the banks of the Canal Saint Martin. The children walked two by two, scattering as they passed along, in the murmur of their voices, a sound like that of humming bees, watching a boy fishing, or a dog running up and down a barge, or a wheelbarrow trundled over a bending plank; happy at the mere sight, and happy to breathe in and to listen to the echoes of Paris.

At the Feast of the Assumption, on the Mother Superior's fête day, and two or three other times a year, they went into the country, and were usually taken to Saint-Cloud. They went through the park, crossed the bridge at Sèvres, wandered by the river-side, under the trees, till they reached a small inn at Suresnes. There in the arbors they crowded round the wooden tables, all stained with purple wine, and feasted upon a large cream cheese, bought by Sister Marguerite.

These joyous, free, open-air treats, the romps in the tall grass, the wild flowers gathered under the willow-trees - all this impressed the excursion more lastingly on Philomène even than the others. She awoke on the ensuing mornings filled with these recollections, and when the sight of the clouds, roads, and river had grown dim in her memory, she still retained of the country she no longer beheld a perfume, an echo, a sensation of sun; and the scent of the trees, the rippling of the water came gently back to her as from afar.

One day more especially dwelt in her mind. They had, as they returned from the country, entered the grounds of a market-gardener. It was May. The luminous sky had an infinite

though subdued transparency, like a white sky overspread with a softly shimmering veil of blue net. The atmosphere was sweet with the morning's breath. At moments a breeze gently shivered through the trees, and died away like a caress on the children's cheeks. In the tenderness of both sky and air, the pear, peach, cherry, and apricot trees blazed forth in a glory of blossom, silvery clusters nestling on every bough. Under the appletrees a vast nosegay lay scattered over the red-brown earth, and the sun dancing through the foliage flitted like a bird over the snowy carpet of flowers. The radiant impression left by this vision of a soft and delicious Nature, decked as for a virginal feast, the dazzling orchard caught sight of in its tender springtide of candor and freshness - all this lived like a dream in the heart of little Philomène.

Little by little the singular persistency of her sensations, the unconscious faculty for retaining a vision, as it were, of things gone by, made the child more impressionable, and developed in her an acute state of sensitiveness. She grew melancholy, and was almost angered at any caress bestowed by the Sisters on the other little girls; a word or a question addressed to another wounded her as a slight or neglect. She had such a craving for tenderness and affection that any kindness displayed to others seemed something robbed from her; and this dread, of which she was herself ashamed, this torture which she hid, was betrayed by an unreasoning jealousy. One day the whole convent went to spend the afternoon at Madame de Mareuil's near Lagny. Madame de Mareuil was the benefactress of the convent, and every year gave a great lunch to the little orphans. At the end of the day, while the carriages were conveying them home, the little ones having had a sip of champagne, all talked at the same time, recalling out loud, as if it were a fairy tale, the wonderful things they had seen the moat full of water, the great gilded gates, the avenues with festoons of ivy, clinging in garlands from tree to tree, and the satin-covered chairs, and the great gallery where the family portraits gazed down on them as they ate, and the boundless park, the marble statues, and the hot-house flowers they did not even know the name of, that looked like wax. Philomène, in the midst of the noise, admiration, and exclamations, alone remained unmoved and silent.

"Well, you little dumb thing," said Sister Marguerite, "you do not say anything. Was it not all fine enough to please you?

What do you mean by being so quiet? Come, come, I know: you would have liked to have been with the big girls, and the lady to notice you. I know what you are, you like ❞— And the Sister, stopping short, heaved a compassionate sigh as she looked at the child. That night, before Philomène dropped off to sleep, she felt Sister Marguerite gently pull her blanket up over her hands and her uncovered shoulders.

All the kindly Sister's care and attention could not, however, wrest the child's heart from the memory of the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin. Her thoughts continually turned toward her aunt, toward Madame de Viry and Monsieur Henry. As in the past, the first Sundays in the month were the most eventful days in her life. If she trembled less when called to the parlor, she still had the same tender caress for her aunt, and exacted always the same promise from the old woman that when she would be old enough she should return to Madame de Viry's with a query of "That is certain, is it not?" full of an anxiety that rose from the very depths of her being.

Besides these Sundays, three weeks in the year also caused Philomène the deepest emotion. These were the eight days preceding New Year's Day, the eight days preceding Madame de Viry's fête day, and the eight days before that of her aunt.

All that time she lived a double kind of existence, pondering over the letter of good wishes she longed to make so fine. Long in advance she had bought some pretty writing-paper with initials surrounded by a wreath of embossed roses; with what embarrassment and diffidence did she strive to set forth well-rounded phrases, similar to those she read in books! What care she took in writing to close the a's well, to make no blots! Once her letter ended, signed, and sealed with a transparent wafer, what machinations for it to arrive just on the eve of the fête day!

Philomène was ten years old when a little girl two years older than herself entered the orphanage. On seeing each other for the first time, the two children went toward one another with the impulse and natural instinct of children that have already met. This spontaneous affection was cemented the following day at play-time by a present the newcomer, Céline, made to Philomène. For many a day this present seemed to Philomène the most lovely thing in the world. It was an embossed and stamped envelope imitating net, and on it was displayed a vase whereon was written, in gilt letters surrounded

by gold flourishes, the word, Souvenir; from this envelope could be drawn forth a nosegay of painted cut-out lilac that opened like a fan with seven sticks, on each of which a little printed medallion displayed the Infant Jesus lying in the manger, surrounded by kneeling children. Philomène had carefully shut up and hid this beautiful gift in her mass-book; the first days she constantly gazed at it, touched it, unfolded it, looking at the pictures and reading the litany printed round them: "0 Jesus! divine Savior, as my New Year's gift accept my heart."

The two little ones soon became intimate friends, and whenever they could be together were never apart. They shared everything that their friends brought them, even their butter and sugar. Their thoughts, joys, disappointments were one. In the playground they were always seen together, sometimes with an arm thrown round the neck or slipped round the waist of the other, absorbed the while in ceaseless conversation; and they walked to and fro in the yard linked together in some pretty childlike gesture, confidentially leaning on one another; Philomène with large eyes, long lashes, slow glance, and full, halfparted lips, rosy and rather tanned cheeks, and amber-colored locks straying from under her cap; Céline with rounded, prominent forehead, naturally curly hair, small, clear, deep-set gray eyes, open nostrils, thin lips, dimpled chin, and oval face. After a few turns, they would often sit down on the stone bench near the pump; even in winter they sat there for a quarter of an hour at a time, huddled up in print gowns that through the poor thin folds betrayed a thick woolen knitted vest, the tips of their shapeless list shoes resting on the ground; and they remained there, overcome with cold, silent and motionless, taking an indolent pleasure in the numbing sensation, while they gazed into space, Philomène looking at some bird, Céline watching a passing cloud.

Until her entry into the convent Céline had been the little nurse and maid of an infirm grandmother. Her childhood had been lulled and charmed by the Lives of the Saints. The old woman read a few pages out loud every evening, opening the book with her gouty fingers at the page she had marked the previous day. Then, as she grew older, Céline in her turn took the big book on her lap, and read to her grandmother. She had learned to read in that book; in it her imagination had spelt out its first letters, and this her first alphabet was the initiation of her life.