holy songs if she were being burned at the stake. She had been vowed to
the Virgin in her babyhood, and was always dressed in white and blue, but
her little dress was a small conventual robe, straight and narrow cut, of
white woollen stuff, and banded plainly with blue at the waist. She did
not look like other children, but she was very sweet and gentle, and her
pure little pale face and large, dark eyes had a lovely dreamy look. When
she was old enough to visit the poor with her Aunt Clotilde--and she was
hardly seven years old when it was considered proper that she should
begin--the villagers did not stand in awe of her. They began to adore
her, almost to worship her, as if she had, indeed, been a sacred child.
The little ones delighted to look at her, to draw near her sometimes and
touch her soft white and blue robe. And, when they did so, she always
returned their looks with such a tender, sympathetic smile, and spoke to
them in so gentle a voice, that they were in ecstasies. They used to
talk her over, tell stories about her when they were playing together
afterwards.

"The little Mademoiselle," they said, "she is a child saint. I have heard
them say so. Sometimes there is a little light round her head. One day
her little white robe will begin to shine too, and her long sleeves will
be wings, and she will spread them and ascend through the blue sky to
Paradise. You will see if it is not so."

So, in this secluded world in the gray old _château_, with no companion
but her aunt, with no occupation but her studies and her charities, with
no thoughts but those of saints and religious exercises, Elizabeth lived
until she was eleven years old. Then a great grief befell her. One
morning, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave her room at the regular
hour. As she never broke a rule she had made for herself and her
household, this occasioned great wonder. Her old maid servant waited