And she did not change, even when the baby Elizabeth was brought to her.
She attended strictly to the child's comfort and prayed many prayers for
her innocent soul, but it can be scarcely said that her manner was any
softer or that she smiled more. At first Elizabeth used to scream at the
sight of the black, nun-like dress and the rigid, handsome face, but in
course of time she became accustomed to them, and, through living in an
atmosphere so silent and without brightness, a few months changed her
from a laughing, romping baby into a pale, quiet child, who rarely made
any childish noise at all.

In this quiet way she became fond of her aunt. She saw little of anyone
but the servants, who were all trained to quietness also. As soon as she
was old enough her aunt began her religious training. Before she could
speak plainly she heard legends of saints and stories of martyrs. She was
taken into the little chapel and taught to pray there. She believed in
miracles, and would not have been surprised at any moment if she had met
the Child Jesus or the Virgin in the beautiful rambling gardens which
surrounded the _château_. She was a sensitive, imaginative child, and the
sacred romances she heard filled all her mind and made up her little
life. She wished to be a saint herself, and spent hours in wandering in
the terraced rose gardens wondering if such a thing was possible in
modern days, and what she must do to obtain such holy victory. Her chief
sorrow was that she knew herself to be delicate and very timid--so timid
that she often suffered when people did not suspect it--and she was
afraid that she was not brave enough to be a martyr. Once, poor little
one! when she was alone in her room, she held her hand over a burning wax
candle, but the pain was so terrible that she could not keep it there.
Indeed, she fell back white and faint, and sank upon her chair,
breathless and in tears, because she felt sure that she could not chant